Under Different Stars
by Elvenson
Summary: Celebrin's journey continues in the wilderness of the East, freed now from the spell of Khamul; but what ancient evils lurk in the minds of Men in times of peace? An untold tale about the Long Years of Peace in Middle Earth is now told.
1. Return to the Wilderness

The figure before him ran with a grace and speed that could be compared to a gazelle or a hart; they had done this chase before, it was a past time of theirs and every year they completed the same race. They knew every stone and hill and bluff and each path had a shortcut that rarely changed in their eyes, though to others the paths never seemed to be the same from year to year. A boisterous laugh echoed through the lands,

"Hurry up! I'm going to beat you again short shanks!"

The dark haired youth smiled and quickened his pace, the figure before him passed under the eaves of the woods with form and agility that mimicked even the swiftest of swallows, the sunlight of the early morning radiated off the new leaves of spring and caught their glimmer on the figure's golden brown hair, shimmering like freshly polished brass. His breathing slowed and a faint glimmer caught his eye,

_There it is!_

The thought ran through his mind as he quickly, deftly and silently turned to the left and took another course. The other, running swiftly ahead dodged branches here and there, never breaking his stride, his feet softly touching each stone or fallen autumnal leaf before springing back up; suddenly it occurred to him that the sound of running was caused by his feet alone. He turned around and saw nothing but the green and gray shadows passing under the eaves of willow, beech and ash. His ears cocked from one side to the other, nothing but the occasional sound of birds and the flowing river entered his ears.

"Celebrin?"

He shouted, drawing in quick breaths; wiping the sweat from his brow he heard the crack of a twig and turned back toward the path and direction he had been running; there standing several meters in front of him was a short lithe figure, his blackened raven hair shimmering in the light of the clearing he stood in, a mischievous smile worn on his lips.

"Don't look so shocked Alphé, I was bound to beat you sometime!"

The dark haired elf spun around and quickly dashed up the hill, deeper into the forest; Alphindil raced after him laughing,

"I don't know how you did it but you haven't won yet."

The two raced through the woods that spanned the long course of the River Lune all the way up to the foothills of the Emyn Uial the source of the river. They raced on and on, never tiring until the sun was fully toward the west, almost ready to dip behind the Ered Luin. They stood on the bald head of some unknown hill gasping and heaving breaths of cool, humid green air; lightning bugs began to hover from their abodes in the grasses upon the hill and the song of the nightingales began to chirp. Celebrin sat upon the ground and looked Eastward beyond the lands of Cirdan; the hill dipped down before beginning the slow climb to the Emyn Uial where no trees grew, save the hardy cypress, clining to rocks that jutted over the ever present mists that rose from the valley of Nenuial. Alphindil sat beside him handing him a piece of waybread they had bought at the market when they began their race; the two friends looked out at Emyn Uial, the sea of mist rising to meet them and lap at their feet. They sat silent for a moment before Alphindil finally spoke,

"Do you think they'll come tonight?"

"I doubt it…they never do, maybe they are gone…gone forever like my uncle says."

"So why do you wake me at midnight every year on this day and force me to run all these miles; if you were worried about coming here on time; we should have left Mithlond earlier and arrived here leisurely."

,said Alphindil tying his hair up into a braided knot to keep it from his shoulders. Celebrin knelt behind his friend and helped him with knotting the braid tightly so that it did not move,

"Because…I don't think they would appreciate someone just leisurely visiting them…I feel like they want to watch us struggle to meet them, to see them…Like we have to prove ourselves somehow."

"I thought you said they were gone forever…"

"Perhaps I want to dream that they are still here…"

Suddenly a voice startled them from behind,

"Perhaps we are."

They turned quickly and caught the shadow of a misty figure just as the sun passed behind the Ered Luin. Alphindil stood suddenly and yelled,

"Wait!"

But then it was too late, the mists rose over them as twilight commenced and even the stars were veiled behind the gray rain curtain. They were silent for a brief moment and Celebrin stood beside Alphindil; Alphindil was about to speak but his companion quickly placed his finger upon his lips.

"Listen"

, he whispered; the air seemed to grow heavy and his chest felt like it was surrounded by water, as though he were swimming in the bays and piers of Mithlond. Then at the base of the hill small lights seemed to float in the air, swinging in tiny circlets and dancing in the air like fireflies. Yet the lights were green, almost like the rays of the sun passing through gems of emerald, agate and tourmaline. The lights began to approach and though Celebrin was nervous and his heart beat quickly he did not feel fear. Slowly the lights ascended the hill and a voice clear and musical like a bell,

"Edro!"

Immediately the mists seemed to swirl around and above them, they opened like a morning glory opens to greet the sun or how a moonflower opens at dusk, the stars shone out clear and seemed closer to the earth than they had ever been. As the mists swirled they descended the hill and standing before them in a willow-leaf green and silver dress was an elf-maiden; her hair was dark like the midnight sky and her skin pale like ivory or opal. Her arms long and lithe were extended to the sky, palms facing the heavens and she lowered them like great swooping wings of a swan; her eyes were a deep set green, like newly cut grass or the green of the waxy pine leaves that grew in the highlands of Forlindon. She smiled at them and though she seemed young her eyes were ancient and wildly regal, like the king stag or the noble heaviness of the turtle. Upon her head she wore a wreath of woven willow branches and she wore richly carved wooden bracelets that shimmered and gleamed like finely polished silver and gold. Around them stood other elves, who wore clothes of green and brown, so finely dyed that they seemed to melt into the very grass of the hills behind them. Their garb was rough and if one inspected them more one could tell there were tattered and mended patches, yet in the twilight their garb seemed more fine than the silken robes of the Noldor or the garments of the Sindar. The elf-maiden smiled at them and said in the speech of the Laiquendi, that had not been heard in Ennor for many long years

"Greetings Lhachdel! How my heart rejoices at seeing the son of Tathiril at long last after so many long years of waiting!"

When silence greeted her she spoke again in the tongue of the Sindar of Doriath.

Alphindil chuckled nervously and said to her,

"You are mistaken my lady…there is none here by that name."

She seemed to ignore Alphindil and kept her eyes fixed upon Celebrin, who was mesmerized by their song and vibrant hue; and in truth he heard no words come from his friend's mouth only the name Lachdel reverberated in his chest and caused his heart to quell and shudder. When at last he spoke his words seemed to echo off of the very blades of grass or every leaf that shuddered in an absent wind,

"You know my amilessë, yet you speak not your own name…Tell me, are you kin to me, or to my mother whose grave lies beneath the churning waves of the ocean?"

She smiled and tilted her head to the side as though she were looking at a child,

"You do not remember me do you child? Yet how could you? Long have been the years that last I laid eyes upon your fair face and though you have not marked it. I have ever watched you grow and been your silent guardian through the years…I am Liniel of the Danas, whom you call the Nandor, your mother and I were kin in Cuivienen the Long Abandoned home."

Celebrin looked at her for a long time while Alphindil looked at him in wonder; he took his companion's hand in his own and squeezed it. The touch of the other elf awakened Celebrin and he blinked as though blinking would rid him of the vision, yet still she stayed standing before him she held out her hand to him,

"Come with me and I shall say more and show you the life your mother long had lived, ere the fencing of Doriath!"

Celebrin moved to grab her hand but Alphindil took his wrist,

"Do not go with her! You know not if she speaks the truth; speak of her to your uncle first and see if what she says is true!"

Like a hale and fierce flame her voice came suddenly and swift and for a moment the mists seems to circle them again,

"Cease your tongue goldo, kinslayer and foresworn! Who are you to tell Lhachdel Tathirilion to whom he may or may not speak? My words are to him alone!"

Her voice became softer now, though more urgent,

"Come Lhachdel! Come and be with your people, for they too long to see your face and see the elf you have become. I shall not call to you again if we part this night, for this offer is made but once by our folk. Either come with me now or think only of this night as a dream."

Celebrin licked his lips and looking deeply in Alphindil's eyes, he smiled and said,

"I have to…"

He placed his hand into the elf-maiden's and suddenly felt that the ground he stood on ceased to be firm, or rather that it passed quickly beneath his feet, the world became shrouded in mist and the forest revolved in flashes of gray, blue and green and in the distance he heard his name being called out and then all was silent and faded to black

Suddenly Celebrin, the elf of Doriath, awoke with a start taking in a large breath, gasping for air, like a man drowned who has just been given life again. The blanket he covered himself with was thrown on the floor across the room and he looked at his hands and felt the soft straw mattress beneath him. He looked out the window of his room and did not see expansive forest or even the shores of the sea but the deep desert canyon which was now his home. He was no longer in the realm of dreams and memory but in the real physical world; he wiped the sweat from his brow and recalled that what he had dreamed was a real occurrence yet somehow his mind had constructed it to be the thing of myth, as is the way with memories, especially powerful ones.

Liniel was a Nandor and she did come to him one night beckoning him to join her; he remembered going with her and living among the forest peoples for many years, learning their craft of herb, hunting and wood carving. They taught him the tongues of birds and beasts and even to read the scent of the air or the taste of sap for the times and changes of the seasons. Yet he did not recall Alphindil ever being with him, nor did he remember living by the sea in all that time. He wandered on their annual cycle migration from the foothills of the Ered Luin in the spring to the Northern marches above the land that would be Arnor in the summer months, when the wild flowers bloomed. Then they would travel westward to the wooden vales beside the Misty Mountains and live north of Eregion, where Celeborn ruled. Yet never did they journey into the city, for it was their law that no Nandor of their kind would live in houses built of mortar and stone, while abandoning the woods that were their home. In the winter they journeyed south even to the land of Minhiriath, and in those days there was no break in the woods and it was only in the summer when they stepped out from the forest to live upon the plains of Arnor.

When he returned to Mithlond, however, after what he thought was a 3 or 4 years living among them, all those he spoke with swore they had not seen him in 25 years. Alphindil himself embraced him in his arms as though he were one dead that had now come back to life, for he wore an expression of fear in his eyes and for many years after would look sideways at Celebrin, as though he expected him to vanish into thin air again. Celebrin never fully believed them, thinking it was all exaggeration, for he was not held against his will and Liniel came often, after his return, to the borders of Mithlond to speak with him. She taught him the healing arts of the ancient green elves of Ossiriand, who began to disappear more and more and as the years went on her visits became less frequent. Yet she did for a time stay in Mithlond consenting to live in the house he built beside the Hall of Cirdan, for Alphindil was struck with deadly venom from some creature of the sea and she alone had the skill and knowledge to heal it. In those happier days he called her Perinaneth, which is half-mother. In the end however she left him, as all the others had, she journeyed eastward with her folk, for the woods of Eriador were no longer a safe place for her roaming band of elves, of whom his mother was kin. They journeyed Eastward and were not seen again, though when he lived in Lorinand the Nandor spoke of Liniel and her people and how they roamed the mountains and journeyed into the forest of Fangorn, where even the elves of Doriath and Valinor feared to enter. Though he heard no word or saw any glimpse of them, he often thought he saw the faint glimmer of a moving shadow in the corner of his eye when he wandered through the woods alone or on guard duty. Yet now as he sat in bed contemplating his dream he wondered why he remembered that particular moment in his life, when previously his dreams only reminded him of the war and death he had seen.

Unable to sleep he dressed himself and walked out the door just as the rosy fingers of dawn began to peek into the sky. The dry air filled his lungs with bitter freshness as he climbed the last mile up the sheer cliff face; breathing heavily and wiping the copious amounts of sweat that dotted his brow he looked out over the great chasm of earth and then up into the sky. The early morning was always warm like this, dry and hot yet still clinging to night's chill in the deep valley of the canyon; he looked to the north and saw the rising slopes of the red mountains, the tallest tip was covered in lily white snow and reflected the morning's light into brilliant hues of reds, blues, purples and greens. To south the mountains curved in a great crescent shape and fell into a flat plain of fire and sand. Straight through the sandy desert cut a great blue river that flowed from mountain streams into a flood plain below. To the east the plain continued and the golden speck of another great river met his eye; this river flowed ever yellow and gold, for what reason he could not say. And finally his gaze went to the west, still pale blue in the distance where the morning light had not yet reached it; the rocky terrain gave way to brown hills, the shore of a once clear inland sea, and further there grew ancient forests that were once his home.

A gentle snort came from behind his and he saw the long face of a black steed, whom he found wandering the canyon and taken to be his own. He patted the steed upon the soft wet nose and said,

"You were restless too eh Durandir? Do you smell it also…rain comes and it will come swiftly, perhaps tonight!"

Though the sky was clear and there was no wind the elf looking into the farthest reaches of the South and saw a dark shadow above the horizon and already the smell of rain seemed to emit from the dry aching desert soil.

"You will have to stay in the stone stable tonight, the river valley will be flooded and I doubt you can find higher ground or a place to stay dry…unless you have learned how to dig deep holes like the ants do?"

He laughed as the horse neighed its concern about being cooped up inside the small clay and stone stable Celebrin had built for him in a cavern space. He combed his fingers through the sable mane of the horse and led him to a sloping pathway that dipped into the canyon. He wandered through the dry brush, cutting herbs and digging up wild roots and tubers, which he ate during the dry season when his terraced garden yielded no fruit. Celebrin the elf, immortal and long-lived even among his own kin, did not count the days or weeks or months and forgot after a time to count the years as they passed. He was happy, at least as happy as he could be with only the solace of his mind and the vividness of his memories to keep him company.

Other than the deer, wild birds and his horse he kept no other company and in this he was content, for the memories of his long and sorrowful life did not lend themselves for open words. He remembered the years of his childhood, the brief years of happiness and the brutality of its end. He remembered the slaughter of his parents as they defended the kingdom he was raised in; slaughtered by the hands of kinsmen in pursuit of a jewel. He then remembered the years in his foster-father's keep, where he lived by the sea at the western edge of the world; there he met his friend of friends, Alphindil, who for many years uncounted was at his side and was like to him another part of his soul. Yet even this ended in sorrow for the Great War that ended the second age of the world brought pain and suffering to his companion of long years, leading him to seek the path to the West, from which none can return. And this parting was purchased with the betrayal of his father's kinsman and Celebrin's subsequent exile into the Eastern Lands.

The elf then bound himself to a mortal woman in seeking to end his pain and raised from infancy a daughter beautiful and wise to behold, yet even she was tainted by the mortal gift of death and age. And so after long years of toil and travel, Uial Celebrin, son of Doriath made his home in a gorge beneath the shadow of the Orocarni, severed and sundered from any man, elf or other creature save the wild things that lived in that corner of the world. As he neared the slope that would lead to the horse's stable he heard the faint murmur of a thunder roar and he realized he had wandered far too long and meandered without his wits about him, letting the storm catch him unawares. He let out a shrill whistle calling the horse to him; the black beast came hesitantly but as the rain began to pour the horse trotted quickly with the elf's pace. The rain began to fall heavily as Celebrin shut the gate to the stable and went through the small cavern passage that he used to reach his own living quarters. Once he was on the ledge that his door opened out to he looked down at the canyon's deep valley and already saw the sand turn into deep wet clay and slide away through the flood plain.

The canyon veered West for a day's march before turning abruptly south and opening onto the Talath Anorui, the Fire Plain, from there it seemed as though the water disappeared, to where the elf could not say. The rains of the desert's wet season were strong but unpredictable, and often caught people unawares with flash-floods and sudden mudslides, or would last for days or weeks before letting up. Yet Celebrin was unafraid for his cave rested on solid rock and the terraces of his garden were built into the rock face of the canyon's side. His storage house was between the stable and the main house structure built into another deep cave and covered with large stones. He smelled the heavy scent of wet earth and drank from his clay cup some of the cool rain water that fell into a cistern upon the ledge; he permitted his mind to wander to other memories and other times, unaware that a dark figure clasped to the rock beneath the ledge slowly climbing up the rock face to where the entrance of the storage house lay.


	2. Of Anatse and Ciryaher

_Sorry about the long wait to post the next few chapters. A note on the time periods, the story, for the most part is broken up into different parts telling three different stories; the first follows Celebrin in the wilderness, the second follows Anatse and he family, the third part tells of what is going on with the elves of the West. The time periods are all broken up and don't really follow one another exactly in terms of time, I will post what approximate year it should be, though with Celebrin time seems to lose all meaning lol. Let me know what you think and as always R&R_

* * *

_Khavul- circa 1065 Third age of the world._

The small pattering of rain drops upon the tiled roof rung through the house like small bells singing a song of simple joy; mixed with a child's laughter it brought a smile to a man who sits in the atrium of his home, his dark beard shimmering. Having just bathed, Ciryaher Hyarmendacil sat upon a small wood and reed tripod stool, a white linen towel wrapped around his waist; his son, Uialasse, Cedledl as he was called in the place of his birth, ran through the small garden in the entryway to their home, chasing a small gray cat through the herbs and bushes, getting wet in the seasonal monsoon that poured into the garden and gathered in a small pool in the center. The hooting of a desert owl that had taken up residence in their ceiling alerted his attention skyward; as the bird nestled some newly found twigs into a nest in the beams he muttered to himself,

"I should have that owl removed…I will see to it tomorrow morning."

"You will do no such thing."

The voice of Anatse Xidhlalique entered his ears and she placed her soft supple hands on his shoulder massaging the tense muscles earned from so long a day of marshalling his troops through the desert sands and entreating with messengers from Osgiliath and other places of Gondor. Her hands, strong from kneading dough and making clay bricks for the new council chamber rubbed a sweet smelling ointment into his skin relieving him of the tension that had built up during the day. The king of Gondor had many trusted vassals and stewards but he liked having the last word in how his kingdom was run and since he took up residence, for however brief a time in the East, that meant that the day-to-day running of his kingdom was left to these stewards while each month a small caravan of messengers would greet him in the ancient city of Khavul and bring him word of Gondor. That is how things had been for many years now, ever since his conquering of the Southern lands and the dethronement of the great Shadow of the East, Khamul the wraith captain of Mordor, second only in power and fear of another whose name has been lost to memory.

But no one spoke ever of those dark days before the war ended and few were left now who remembered the days before the war, save the elders of the Seven Nations of the Red Mountain, and even they were loathe to repeat memories of those dark days. Before Ciryaher and the might of Gondor came into the East, the Seven Nations of the Red Mountain waged a losing war with the Shadow and his dark rule, yet despite their dire straits they held off his advances for many years beyond count and formed a great alliance of several independent nations with so great a military might, the likes of which had never been seen in the memory of mortal men. Ciryaher Hyarmendacil came among them when he was just a boy, a youth who was waging a war of vengeance for the death of his father.

When he came among them he was untried and arrogant, they taught him the measure of a true leader, and the importance of being a servant to his people; no greater tutor did he have than his Eastern wife, Anatse. She was the daughter of the Utashtegu, a large nation composed of different tribes and clans who swore allegiance to her cousin, Dhraloku and her mother Cidhrali, who both led the war in those dark days. When they at long last died, of war and age, she took up the mantle of Queen Ashthera, a powerful enigmatic figure among the council which governed the Seven Nations, for she was given the power to move the council and bind them to a certain action, a power she seldom used except at great need. Yet those days were long over, for she could no longer remain Queen Ashthera, while in marriage she was bound to a man of a foreign nation, for the title and power of the Queen could only be held to a woman who was mother, sister, wife and daughter of the Seven Nations. Now that mantle had passed to another woman, yet there was no bitterness for Anatse was still part of the ruling council of the lands of the Seven Nations, whose chief city was Khavul.

Khavul rested on the bones of Khahalazul, the dread city of Khamul, from which he once ruled his tyrannical empire; Khahalazul itself was built on the ashes of another more ancient city which was long owned by the ancestors of the Utashtegu and the most ancient tribes of the Harad, yet of this history none lived to tell it, save one, but he does not enter this story. Khavul was built upon a large flood plain in the midst of the desert, fed by the river from which the city took its name; since the overthrow of Khamul, the river was freed and the lands had become suitable to harvest grain and raise livestock. Over the years, since the end of the war, it became a veritable paradise in the desert east of Gondor and south of the ancient Orocarni. To the south of this land lay the lands of the Harad and further south, beyond them lay the lands of the Ayab-Mamuk, the shepherds of the Mumakil, the great war-beasts of the southern realm. To the farthest east and west of these lands lay the might of Gondor and Khand, the kingdoms of the ocean shores. Further south none have ever ventured save some among the Ayab-Mamuk, and they told tales of an even greater land, fenced by tall trees with a canopy so dense the light of the sun never ventured to meet the ground below. The people that lived there were said to be of kin to the Ayab-Mamuk but they were cruel and forever in league with Khamul, and so none ventured to that land.

Between Khavul and Osgiliath was a large savannah, were grass lands met rocky desert and where several springs and watering holes fed the travelling bands of Ayab-Mamuk and some Hamadjon, a race of people who were, since time immemorial ruled by women and of whom many war songs were written, for their skill in battle was unmatched. These Hamadjon were the guardians of Khavul and had long pledged allegiance to Anatse of the Utashtegu and called her their immortal queen. This was the lay of the land in those days of peace, when a messenger from Gondor, dressed in the black and silver garb of Minas Arnor, the seat of the King's head steward, rode to the great wall of Khavul and passed the gates with an urgent message. He rode through the city streets upon a white horse, galloping through the winding roads and broken cobble stone, the steed's feet patterned the rain falling on the tile roofs. When the messenger came to the house where Ciryaher and his wife lived he was stopped at the door by two tall figures, one held a bow and the other a long spear. He spoke harshly at them,

"Let me in, I must speak with the King of Gondor!"

"You will not enter the house of the Queen unbidden, stranger…"

Though the guard was tall, the voice was soft yet authoritative; the guard wore the garb of the Hamadjon, a tight leather jerkin and a purple skirt over deep red leggings. Her hand lay on the hilt of her sword and she looked at the messenger with a look of disgust from behind her deep hood. The other spoke into the door, in the strange tongue of the Hamadjon and there was a debate from within; the messenger scoffed and sighed, clearly impatient with the lack of regard for his royal garb and the message he bore which held the seal of Minas Arnor, the seal of the steward, Calmacil. It would only be a few minutes before the guards opened the door to him and he was led to a small room lit by a central hearth. The king sat on a small wooden chair, simply dressed in a white linen tunic and brown leggings; his feet were bare and were pointed out toward the hearth. When he saw who the messenger was he stood and let out a large laugh,

"What brings you here Halmir? When they told me a messenger from Gondor had arrived I half expected one from the lesser lords, perhaps of Anfalas, not one from my most steadfast servant."

He embraced the messenger who, now in the firelight, put back his hood and revealed the visage of a youth not yet 24. His hair was cropped short in the style of Minas Arnor and he was closely shaved; a light rose hue was laid upon his cheeks, having just ended his fair-faced adolescence and he slightly smiled to see the king in good spirits and healthy. The king brought him to a chair by the hearth and bade him sit, but the youth refused only holding out the scroll he kept tucked deep in his cloak, protected from the rain.

"Forgive me my king, but I have word from my father Calmacil, dangerous news and ill tidings I am afraid are what I bring you, not news fitting your good humor."

The king wore worry upon his face and took the scroll, opening it and turning away from the hearth to read it better. It was in the sharp military hand of Calmacil and when he read it a dread fell over him, it said,

"My king,

I write to you with great urgency. As you read this a great conspiracy has been unmasked in Osgiliath, for my dear friends in that city have told me that some among the Chamber of the Lords of Gondor have gathered in places dark and secret and speak ill towards you. They do not speak openly of their complaints though they hint at them and they are many; they do not yet speak openly of sedition but no longer do they hold your name in high esteem and some among them have spoken of an act that would rent your new empire in twain. I beseech thee, my lord and king to end your hiatus in the Eastern lands; for I fear this speech will spread as it has begun to do. My son, I have sent to you so that you know the direness of need and the danger your rule now lies in, for I fear even to open my heart to your own servants. Please my lord, come home, your kingdom needs you.

Calmacil,

Your faithful and loyal Steward and Lord of Minas Arnor"

At the end of reading the letter Ciryaher turned to the youth sitting by the fire and said,

"Is this true?"

"Ay, my lord, I have even heard the words from many of the lords themselves."

"What words?"

At this Anatse entered carrying Cedledl in her arms drying his ears and holding him close to her breast warming him. The young messenger's eyes fell upon the wife of Ciryaher and his tongue was stopped, he only said in the Western tongue to his King,

"They speak ill of…your wife."

"Who speaks ill of me?"

,said Anatse, her Westron clear and fluent, which startled the young man. She set the child in a corner of the room where his toys were gathered and walked to meet the two men, Ciryaher sighed and nodded for the young man to continue,

"They whisper and say that she keeps you here by…forgive me mistress… by the dark magic of her loins. And she makes you forget your service to your people."

"I have just spoken to the caravan from Gondor and none told me this!"

"They fear to, for you are still well-liked in the city and they fear to speak openly of…of sitting a new king upon the throne."

"They seek to supplant me…I, who expanded our people's lands to their greatest extent since the days of Numenor!"

At this the king rose tall and he began to pace the room, Anatse was silent yet her eyes were filled with fire, she said angrily,

"Is it not enough that my husband's lands are great and span the mighty leagues of the earth, or that their coffers are full with the grain and minerals of the East? Of the labor of my people!"

The young messenger said,

"They do not complain about the wealth you have brought and for this reason my father says you still have supporters among the lords who have stalled the most brazen of your detractors from openly calling for your removal. But, even these few who are loyal have…reservations."

"What kind of reservations?"

The youth looked at the king,

"My father says that they think you have spent too long laboring here, building roads and a city that does not even belong to Gondor. They say…they say you have forsaken your own people."

The king scoffed,

"What I do here I do for the good of Gondor! Faithless would I have been if I left these people to scratch a living out of rocks, and too easily could they have fallen into darkness again, had I not ensured their prosperity!"

At this Anatse looked at her husband, her gray eyes filled with an icy-cold fire, without speaking she strode out of the room and scooped up her child. Ciryaher did not mark her leaving, but turned to face the young man, who said,

"They also…say, that you have left them without an heir and that they should ensure that the line of succession is not broken."

"They have an heir…my son sleeps not but a few meters from me and he is safe and secure here! Uialasse is my heir, they need not seek another!"

At this the youth turned from the king, not wanting to say the next message to his face,

"They say…they say they will not recognize this child…for he is _peragar_, half-blood and half-born."

At this the king sat and crushed the parchment he held in his hands. It was a long time before he spoke again and this was only to order the youth to depart; he sat in silence until the hearth died down and then he went to his bed chamber on the top floor. When he entered the room he saw Anatse looking out at the city from their balcony, he walked up to her, wrapping his arms around her he said, softly,

"Do not let those words upset you my love, they are words spoken by ignorant fools."

At this she shirked off his embrace and turned to face him, slapping him across the cheeks,

"I know their words are ignorant! It is yours that has lit a fire upon my breast!"

"What have I said that makes you strike me so!"

"I strike you because I am barbaric and that is how barbarians speak to their husbands is it not! How fortunate am I that the great king of the west had come and tamed so wild and uncouth a creature!"

"Anatse…"

"Is that why you came to stay here? To civilize me and my people! And here I thought you stayed to be with your son!"

"I did…"

"We do not need you Cirya, we have never needed you! My people were holding back the darkness of Khamul long before you ever were named king! You may have given us victory but you never gave us our freedom- that we earned from our own blood and tears!"

"And where would you have been had not my men and my armies built your roads! Khavul is the center of trade because of those roads! Your buildings stand because of the skill and might of our engineers! Who else can make these great clay barns stand upon the sand? Who freed the river and gave you all you needed to begin your farming?"

"Then perhaps we should repay you! Or have you counted all my nights with you as payment in full!"

Ciryaher seemed struck like one wounded and he sat upon their bed,

"Is that what you believe I think of you?"

"It is what your countrymen call me. Do not think that in those days when I walk through the market the traders from Gondor never have called me harlot or wretch. And that boy thinks as much of me as well."

"They have never come to know you…if you would but only journey with me to Osgiliath and reveal yourself to them, then they would love you and know you as I do."

He stood and took her in his arms, her body quivering with anger, hot and steaming entwined with his own, she breathed heavily and looked at him with a stern gaze,

"You know I cannot do that…If I leave my people now then I will be called faithless no more than you. My people and the Hamadjon look to me to protect them and see that their voice is heard and given equal weight in the council."

"What better protection can you give them than to represent them in the mighty city of Osgiliath, as queen of a great empire!"

She shook her head at this,

"No…that is the path for you and our son…you must…you must go into the West, secure your throne and the throne of our son."

"I would have you rule by my side…"

"That is not our way…the wife does not leave the hearth and home of the people that have born her. For she is their life blood, their source their…_evaha_."

Ciryaher sighed as she said this word, he only asked once what it meant and that was on the night he married his wife. He was taken aside by the elf called Cedlal, or as the old Istar Saruman called him Uial; he explained to him the marriage tradition of the east, where men were joined to the house of their wives and not the other way around. He explained that the women never leave their mother's kin for the mother was _evaha_, an ancient Alamb-Harad word meaning originator, giver of life. It meant that Anatse would never leave the east and that even after 12 years of marriage and one child she still expected him to abdicate his throne and join her as the husbands of the Hamadjon do, though she never put that desire into spoke words. He walked away and said softly,

"If you will not join me…then I do not know what will become of us."

"Are you saying you wish to be sundered from me?"

"No! That is not my wish at all…but there are forces at work that desire to take my kingdom from me! And they will use you to pry my life's labor from my hands!"

"The ancient ones say…If a thing can be taken so easily from you, then it did not truly belong to you."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means you should go into the West, show these lords that you still are King of Gondor, no matter where you rule! That you are a King for all of Gondor, not just Osgiliath and if they speak ill of you let them know that they derive their authority from you and it can easily be taken and given to another!"

"I can't do that…"

"It is so written in the treaties you make your vassals sign…I have long studied your law Cirya…I know of what I speak."

Anatse seemed to grow just as she had done when she used to wear the garb of Queen Asthera, yet now she was not frightening but powerful and beautiful and if he took her hand then and there she would empower him with all the authority of Manwe if she could. Ciryaher Hyarmendacil took her hand and they spoke long into the night of their plans.


	3. Fell Creatures and Fell times fall

Celebrian sat idly embroidering a new tunic for her husband, she was finely working on the outspread wing of a delicate golden swan when she pricked her finger harshly, causing it to bleed out onto the lily white silk she was working with. She did not give out a cry of pain but instead in frustration thrust the delicate work she had been preparing onto the ground. Elrohir, young and agile quickly stooped down and grabbed the fine fabric from the ground of the Hall of Fire before it became dirtied by too much soot. He placed it gingerly upon a small table nearby, procuring a handkerchief from his vestments and offering it to his mother; she smiled softly at him, yet maintained her silence. Of all her children Elrohir was the one she never needed to speak open words to, they had a silent and loving relationship which needed no words or long discussions, unlike with Elladan who, though he looked like Elrohir in face, voice and form was difficult to read and often was more alien to her. Arwen took to her books more often now and she was rarely seen in the House of Elrond save when she finished reading whatever book or scroll she took up that month. But Elrohir was not a chore to speak with, when they chose to speak to one another their conversations would last hours upon hours and there could be no end to their laughter; yet like his brother they took to the wild lands and learned from their arms master Glorfindel eagerly. This would take him away from her side for months on end, yet she did not begrudge him his lessons, they made him more well-rounded. While Arwen was learned in lore and books and Elladan a master of weaponry and tracking, Elrohir was adept at both and would often debate with Elladan of philosophy or lore while they were on the hunt, or teach Arwen how to hunt and shoot arrows when she left her musings upon astronomy or biology. Celebrian was proud of her children and loved them all equally for their talents, yet she could not hide that stronger connection with Elrohir, perhaps it was because he reminded her of another elf, whom she dearly loved.

Her thoughts turned to Celebrin more and more since she heard that fateful news from Mithrandir's lips; in the days that followed she fought with the desire in her to send messengers and scouts to seek out the truth, not wanting to believe the words that came from so trusted a friend. Arwen still refused to believe, she would often send letters to Cirdan or when she went with her mother to Edhellond she often wanted to go to Osgiliath and find any news that would prove to her beyond a shadow of the doubt that the elf of Doriath was dead. Yet news came seldom from the East and none of it had to do with sightings of elves or anything of the strange name Cedlal, which Mithrandir had said Celebrin was called in the east. Celebrian, however still could not make up her mind; Elrond bade her to accept the words of Mithrandir, if not for their daughter's sake then for her own sanity. She rose from where she sat and looked out at the river valley below, her maid servants were washing the linens in the cool waters of the river and hanging them upon the boughs of the tree. Some washed vigorously, while others played in the water, swatting huge wings of water at one another, laughing and dancing in the summer air. She smiled, but the entrance of Glorfindel into the hall called her attention from the happy scene; he looked worried, which was not unusual in these darkening times, but he came directly toward her and bowed low.

"Forgive me my lady for intruding upon you so."

"You know you are always welcome Glorfindel, please do not address me so formally…I consider you family."

Glorfindel smiled a little and softly wiped a few beads of sweat from his brow,

"I am looking for your husband, is he anywhere near by? I have searched all throughout the city and have yet to find him…"

"He had some urgent business in the vineyards, Master Glordfindel, he left early this morning."

Elrohir stood when his beloved teacher entered the Hall of Fire and spoke with a reverent voice; Celebrian knew how Elrohir had such respect for the ancient elf. Glorfindel looked worried when he found out that the Lord of Imladris had ventured out into the wild north of the city, where the vineyards grew on the exposed terraces in the high mountains. Celebrian sensing his worry spoke,

"What is the matter Glorfindel? You look white as a sheet…what troubles you?"

Glorfindel looked at her, his brow furrowed and his gentle hazel eyes burned into her with a sense of urgency,

"Fell creatures and shadows have been spotted in the north, near the Ettenmoors and most recently in Rhudaur. I have just finished speaking with some travelers from Fornost and they lost several of their company to these creatures."

"Orcs?"

Said Celebrian, whispering now as though any mention of the evil name would let them know where Imladris lay in the hidden valley. Glorfindel shook his head,

"Trolls, they have seemed to come from their hiding places in the Mountains and have torn across the country into our woods…what drives them there I do not know, but they have been attacking trade caravans and …taking prisoners."

"Do you know where they are making toward?"

"I do not know my lady, but my scouts have told me their tracks lead to the Northern fences of this realm; it is a sizeable pack, roughly 20 or more."

Suddenly an elf scout burst through the door, her clothes in rags and she was bleeding from her arm and side. Her lip was badly bruised and one arm was tied in a sling, she ran into the hall followed by several healers and servants and fell to Celebrian's feet. The lady of Imladris fell to her knees and took the young elf maiden in her arms, steadying her as she breathed heavily, gasping for air.

"Too many of them…couldn't get away."

Celebrian looked deeply in the scout's eyes,

"What of my lord? What of the others?"

"Hirelond and Eregthal fell, they…torn in two…so much blood."

The scout's words came in spurts before devolving into jibberish, yet before she fainted they were able to surmise that most of Elrond and his company got away and were now taking refuge in the high passes of the mountains which over looked Imladris. Elrond and his guard would use that old pass to come to Imladris from the safer southernly road.

* * *

Two days after Elrond's company made their way through the Dwarf road which led to Khazad-dum they entered Imladris from the south; several of their company were wounded, yet their wounds were not fatal, though they had lost many in their encounter with the pack of trolls. When they arrived Celebrian had already made provisions ready in the Hall of Healing and as they were spotted at the gates of the city she ran from where she was across the city and leapt into Elrond's weak but waiting arms, nearly toppling him over. He embraced her tightly, though it pained him to have her arms squeeze his bruised sides. Crying she said,

"You do not know how agonizing these days have been…it …it reminded me too much of the war."

"I know my love…I thought these days beyond us now but…evil has returned it seems."

Arwen and Elrond's two sons greeted their father before helping him to the Hall of Healing where his sides and ribs were bandaged. Glorfindel met them there already attired in the shimmering gold armor of Gil-galad's army, which had not been seen since the ending of the last age. When Elrond saw him he almost laughed out loud,

"I see you have lost no time…though I must say full battle regalia were hardly necessary in greeting me."

"There was nothing in the armory that fit me, save this which I found in my dwellings. I have a regiment ready at hand my lord…you just need say the word and I will hunt these creatures to the last."

Elrond breathed heavily, Elladan said bluntly,

"I shall go as well…My arrows and blade have been too much at rest, they ache for troll blood."

"I will go as well, for my father's sake!"

, said Elrohir, ever willing to follow his brother into battle, Elrond slowly lifted his hand to calm them wincing in pain as the healer set his ribs aright,

"You will do nothing of the kind…Until we know more about the movement of these trolls and what brought them from their hiding places in the cold, formidable North."

'But Father…"

, protested Elladan, yet Elrond gave him a look that silenced the words from leaving his lips,

"These trolls are no common mountain breed, they were coordinated, they spoke, in their boorish fashion, and laid a trap for us…We cannot hunt them like they are some wild animal, else we become the prey. No, Glorfindel send the swiftest and most adept scouts you have, perhaps some of Nandorin training if any are left in the city…they may be able to hide amidst the trees and find from the birds and snakes where these creatures come from and if they are on orders to cause chaos."

"Orders? Surely you do not think that …"

Said Celebrian, not wanting to say the name of the Dark Lord of Mordor,

"No…I do not think it is Him, but there are many powerful enough to command his legions, who yet live, for the folly of Isildur allowed them to maintain their power. A shadow has been growing in Greenwood the Great, messengers from Thranduil's realm have said as much, though in truth I gave no credence to it…for I foolishly longed for an end to the War and for days of peace at long last."

Glorfindel paced the ground now, stroking his chin, thinking of plans and tactics,

"We all wished for peace Elrond, yet I returned for days when peace would fly away and the world would return to danger…such was the warning I was given by Lorien himself."

A shadow seemed to pass over them, as though a great doom was drawing nigh, Elrond sat silently though his eyes grew wide and opened revealing their full brightness,

"Never have you spoken of this my friend…has some judgment been passed upon these days, from the very lips of Mandos?"

Glorfindel sighed, sitting now on an empty bed beside where Elrond sat, he wrung his hands before speaking, looking now at the Lord of Imladris directly in the eye, the points of his ears pricked up, thrusting themselves through the Golden net of his hair,

"Yes and no my lord…the darkness is not fully gone from the world and many great and small deeds the elves again must accomplish before their song at long last comes to an end and the age of men begins. I have returned because they who sent me had foresight enough to see that the elves of this world needed to be reminded of the great deeds of their forebears and to warn you, Elrond Peredhel, dark times lay ahead…Peace will not yet come, and I fear this darkness which touches Greenwood is only the beginning."

Elrond sat in silence for a long time, not heeding anything anyone said to him, pondering these fell words from across the sea. Celebrian ushered her children out of the Halls of Healing and returned to where Elrond sat; when she came among him and Glorfindel they were already deep in conversation.

"The scouts should be sent regardless…if these are just refugee trolls pushed out of their homes in the mountains by the orcs or last of the great worms then it would be easy to deal with them. But if they are but a first wave of assault then other plans must be made."

"I quite agree…perhaps we should send messengers to Thranduil. He knows the matters of the Eastern lands greater than any; he may know if a new pretender to the Dark One has arisen in the vast wilderness of frozen Angmar or within the teeth of the Misty Mountains."

"Yes, though he has no love for me and will no doubt say that he warned me long before this happened and I took no heed of his words. Yet some should also be sent to the great eyeries of the Eagles, they will know the movements of the world…"

Celebrian listened to all this and kept it in her heart; she did not wish for a return to war, yet it felt as though the world was falling into it once again. She remembered often the screams of those slain in the siege of Eregion, that mighty city of stone as fires engulfed it and she, only a young maiden watching the siege from her place in the citadel, before she was whisked away to a refuge in the mountains. She waved the memories from her mind, trying to remind herself that Imladris was not Eregion, it was a haven, a hidden valley that none could enter save by Elrond's consent. At long last Glorfindel stood from where he sat and made his way toward her,

"Your husband is indeed a sight to behold and a mind to hear…I did not think to see it in one so young."

She smiled at this,

"You must remember Master Glorfindel, you are not so old either…"

"Ah yes but I am one of the Twice-born, I am both young and old…so very old."

At this she placed her hand softly on his cheek, it felt smooth and warm; he smiled as she did this, that same soft and gentle smile she had seen somewhere else. Then she realized where she had seen that suit of armor before.

"This suit fits you well…you did not have it tailored?"

"No my lady…I found it in an old, richly carved wardrobe in my quarters, beside this."

He brought out a long sword, the kind used by the armies of Gil-galad at the end of the second age; it was a broad blade, showing the craftsmanship of the age, which blended the long sword of the Noldor with the broad axe of the Sindar. Yet unlike the other swords she had seen, which were generally uniform , where the steel was a cold grey and the hilt wrapped in crimson leather, this blade was made of white steel and its hilt was unique. The long hilt was wrapped in white dyed leather and white gold, silver and mithril decorated it in flowing graceful forms; the hilt was shaped like a swan in profiled flight and the wings stretched forward and blended into the pale white steel of the curved blade. She gasped as she saw it, for it was perhaps the most beautiful weapon she had ever seen, save the sword her husband carried; it was made with great care and perhaps a great deal of money, for in the days of the war such fine weaponry was hard to find. Upon the butt of the hilt she saw a strange emblem etched into the white gold, two spears crossing in the middle of a field of stars; she blinked her eyes and said,

"I thought he took it with him to Mithlond…"

"Who my lady?"

Glorfindel's voice woke her from her thoughts and she looked at his armor and understood, smiling she said,

"This armor and this sword once belonged to a dear friend who used to live in your quarters…"

"These belonged to Master Uial? They are indeed fine, though I think the armor may have been a bit tall for him."

She chuckled a bit,

"No. Not Celebrin. His companion, Alphindil…they lived in those quarters together for a long time, until they went to the Great War and afterward when made their way to Mithlond. I thought they had taken everything, but I see Alphindil left his armor here in Imladris, why I cannot guess…"

"Perhaps he thought he would not need it, being lame as he was when I met him, armor and weaponry would not have suited him."

"You met Alphindil? When?"

"Before I came to these lands, on the Island of Tol Eressea, he told me his sad tale…I did not know he and Uial were so close."

"Yes…they were…inseparable. How was he?"

"Sad…but hopeful. I have never seen an elf so marred, especially by war, it was good for him to seek healing in Valinor…there is no hurt or wound that cannot be healed by that land, nor by the tears of Nienna."

Celebrian smiled and wiped the tears that began to flow down her cheek,

"Does it sadden you, to see me wearing his garb? If so I can go to the smithies and find one to make me another suit of armor…"

"No. Do not…Celebrin had this made for Alphindil, and it has survived war and destruction, many times over and saved its wearer from death itself. It is a powerful and enduring thing and should not be cast into the shadows of a wardrobe, never again to be used. I have no doubt it is honored to be worn by one such as you…perhaps in a way, you were meant to find it and wear it."

At this she handed the sword back to Glordfindel and turned to go to her husband's side. In the days that followed the scouts returned and brought news to Elrond that the trolls seemed not to carry orders with them, for they attacked randomly and only those who traveled upon the open road or wandered in the hills and forest. Thranduil sent a message back to Elrond telling him all he knew, with a not too subtle reminder that he had sent such a message years before, which was unheeded. The messenger that was sent to the Eagles brought back the same news, that no darkness was stirring in the mountains and that the trolls were more than likely fleeing from the growing darkness of Greenwood and the stirrings of some worm that had taken up residence in the vastness of the Northern curve of the Misty Mountains.

Elrond then sent a hunting party to rid the land of the trolls or at least drive them back to the Ettenmoors where they could not harm any others. And so it happened that the hunting party came upon the 20 or so trolls as they roamed the woods at night and brought upon them so grave an attack that the creatures were scattered easily and picked off one by one. Ten were slain by the party led by Glorfindel, never again to roam the woods or terrorize travelers, their large hulking bodies heaped upon a hill. Five ran into the darkness of the mountains or the caves of the hills, frightened by the swift and sudden retribution of the elves. The others regrouped and fought the elves until the first rays of sunlight broke out over the Misty Mountains; then they were at a loss for as the sun touched their leathery skin they were halted and frozen in large figures of menacing stone. Glorfindel ordered that the stone creatures be moved and buried waist deep upon a hill overlooking the Ettenmoors and the lands where the other five trolls had taken refuge as a warning to those that remained to not trespass these lands. The land where the remaining trolls now lived was called the Trollshalls and no traveler from Imladris dared to enter that land unless they were heavily guarded or knew the secret paths that led north, which were well hidden from enemy eyes.


	4. Return to Osgiliath

_Osgiliath 1066 TA_

It would be another year before Ciryaher Hyarmendacil journeyed to the west, the journey took him long for he visited the lands of Harad and the Ayab-Mamuk and bought of them a great many spices and ivory jewelry and trunks. He also visited with their tribal chieftains and kings who gave him a great many gifts, of ivory, beasts and servants. When at long last he entered Osgiliath, Ciryaher Hyarmendacil gave out lavish presents to passersby and a great throng of people crowded into the forum where the dome of the stars, the throne of Osgiliath and Gondor itself stood in the midsts of the swift flowing Anduin. The King proceeded as one claiming victory, his train throwing the gold of the Harad and the silver of the Hamadjon into the awaiting crowds, cheering Ciryaher's name. At the steps of the citadel the great throngs of people who had followed his procession looked on as he waited outside the chamber of the Lords of Gondor, calling them to meet their king. The lords stepped out and seeing the mass of people did him homage as was fitting a king of Gondor, in a loud commanding voice he asked of them,

"I have come, my noble and faithful vassals and lords to see for myself how the city of Osgiliath thrives under our new found wealth and prosperity. However, I see no new buildings erected! No gymnasiums or public baths or services for our people. I had sent trunks of Eastern wealth for the building of terraced gardens and the development of schools yet I see no signs of this…Where is the wealth that was promised to OUR people."

At this the crowd cheered, some called out the lords by name, one among them, a bent figure whose balding head shimmered in the sunlight,

"My lord, the wealth you have sent has been well kept in the banks and safes in the treasuries of your noble servants for a time when Gondor most needs them."

"I did not face the might of the East nor secure a great alliance so that Gondor could sit upon its treasure like a great worm beneath a mountain! Nor did I secure vast and numerous trade routes so that the people of Gondor would be without the spices of the East, the fabrics of the south or the grain of Khavul! I did not make peace with the dark hordes of Khamul's army so that our people would still be living as though they were at war. No…I did these things so that our people would have peace and prosperity now! Open these treasuries and do as your people command!"

The lords shrank back as the people clamored and called, the king entered the chamber and motioned for the lords to follow him; shutting the shouts of adulation from the crowd outside the Lords of Gondor looked upon their king, some in fear, others in anger and some in polite respect. They looked in silence upon one another before the king spoke, seated upon his throne which was upon a dais beneath a domed ceiling, lit with large chandeliers, their light shimmering off jewels set in the dark sable ceiling.

"Now…there is no simple way to say this, and I would spare each of you the public humiliation of being seen as a seditionist to your king, whom you serve…Word has reached me that there are those among you would seek to set my another upon the throne of Gondor and supplant me! Is this a falsehood? Is this a lie?"

The lords shifted their feet and those who were at the back of the group began to look most uneasy…One among them, the lord of Anfalas spoke,

"My lord, we know not of what you speak…ever have we kept your praise upon our lips."

"Do you? Then why…after 5 years since his birth, to which you all were witness, has my son's name not been written upon the scroll of heirs? Or why is it that when my messengers come back to me they report of a great correspondence between Eriador and Anfalas, where the son of the king of Cardolan is seen riding around the shores of Gondor giving edicts and proclaiming holidays as though he were king?"

This caught the Lord of Anfalas unawares and he staggered back into the group, Ciryaher sat upon the high seat beneath a domed ceiling. His garment shimmered for it was heavily embroidered with silver and gold string; he looked upon them and said,

"If you disagree with how I rule my kingdom then have the courage to come forth and speak to me now, not hide in shadows like some vile writhing vermin, striking only when the master of the house has left!…The rule of Gondor is still in safe hands regardless of where I lay my head at night, the rule of your lands however…is less secure, for you swore fealty to my father and his father before him and on my coronation, though I was a child, you swore that same fealty to me. And it is I alone that can revoke your oath, I alone that can rescind my throne."

There was a great silence the lords of Gondor looked from one to the other, each afraid to come forth and speak, then the silence was pierced by an old and hale voice,

"That is not entirely true…my king."

At the end of the great chamber stood an elderly man, dressed in black and silver and white. He bore a great staff in his right hand and a scroll of parchment in the other. His hair was white and though his body had seen many battles he still stood tall and heavy upon his booted feet. Calmacil, the Lord of Minas Arnor had entered the great doorway, he walked through the group of Lords and stood facing up toward King Hyarmendacil.

"According to the writ of succession, laid down by your father's father, the Kingship of Gondor shall pass only to the blood of Numenor, of a woman born of Numenor, and her offspring lands. If a king should fail to produce such an heir, either by death or illness or madness… this council is well within its rights to seek another of royal blood to produce that heir. And one has been found. As I see it my king, your reluctance to take up your throne in Osgiliath and leave the sun-kissed lands of the East, make me question your desire to rule the kingdom your father left you…"

Ciryaher's eyebrow arched high, his face beginning to burn red in that hall at seeing his own trusted councilor betray him,

"I did not expect this from you Calmacil, and to lie in my presence!"

The man stood from his throne and looked as though he would have killed the old steward yet in a brief moment his eyes opened wide for from the shadows came forth a woman like to him in age; she was of the old Numenorean blood, this he knew by her appearance, yet she wore a dress of poor quality and seemed to be a pauper noblewoman, whose family had long lost their land and kept nothing but their title, such was the condition of some noble families of Gondor. Her hair was silken gold yet some of it radiated white in the light that shone through the high windows and from the chandeliers above and her eyes looked upon him with ageless seduction, marked deeply with a bluish green that mirrored the feathers of a peacock. Behind her stood a young man, his hair like gold as his mothers, yet his eyes were dark blue like Hyarmendacil as was his nose and firm cheek. In his hands he held a small babe and beside him, behind his leg stood another child only 5 years old. Calmacil spoke now, walking to the place where Hyarmendacil stood, his mouth agape. The old man's voice was kind at first, but then as the story progressed it became snide and sarcastic, slithering off his tongue and spilling out like bile.

"This woman told me a fascinating story…she says that you and she lay together when you brought your forces home after that first disastrous battle, she was a young lady then, barely beyond the age of being a child. You promised her wealth and all the glories of your new empire once the war was completed; then you left to the East, in search of allies and other routes to attack the land of Khamul, and never returned. She waited for you, but of course you forgot about her and in that year after you left she bore a son, a bastard son of the king of Gondor. Shamed and ridiculed by her family she was cast out and none believed her story that the babe in her arms was the very son of the king…Does any of this seem familiar?"

Calmacil sat now upon the throne that Hyarmendacil once was on his intense eyes burning into the nape of Hyarmendacil's neck; the king looking at the woman, blinking as though he was trying to wake from a dream, whispered,

"Adunaphel…"

Calmacil nodded his head,

"Yes, that is her name… isn't it my dear?"

The woman approached the kneeling figure of the king and said, softly almost sad and yet a glint of pride was in her eyes,

"Whore they called me…stripped of my title, my land, my home. My son they called bastard, fatherless, a wretch. Promises you made to me, beneath the stars of Varda herself, will you now be faithless my king and leave your grandchildren to scrape a living off of rocks?"

"Such a grave injustice to a noble family cannot go unanswered my king, what will be your answer to this charge? Will you leave this woman to humiliation?"

Ciryaher looked at Calmacil and tears began to well in his eyes, his head hung low and he began to weep; so it came to pass that Ciryaher Hyarmendacil was wed, in the custom of Numenor, to Adunaphel of the family of El-Murazor. His son Alcarin was named heir to the throne of Gondor and his children as well; the eldest, at Ciryaher's request was named Narmacil and the youngest, named by his grandmother, was called Calmacil, after the man who found her among the beggars of the kingdom and lifted her up to be Queen of Gondor.

* * *

Word of this never came to the lands of the East, where Anatse watched her son grow into a tall child of 10 years of age; yet fear stuck in her heart, for Ciryaher had not yet returned and any news she sought of him from the traders and soldiers was hushed and silenced. Finally, unlooked for and without pomp the king of Gondor returned to Khavul with a delegation of Gondorian diplomats. He went directly to the Council of the Seven Nations where he reaffirmed his treaty with the new Queen Ashthera and appointed these new men as official diplomats with whom they would hold congress on behalf of Gondor. Anatse, however, was outside of the city walls when he had arrived, yet the chieftain of the Hamadjon, the eldest daughter of Narmacil, whose name was Thiane, rode forth from the council and found her listening intently to a disagreement between two farmers about the use of a common canal. The chieftain bowed low to Anatse and greeted her in the manner of her people, saying,

"Forgive me Queen-once-Goddess, but my mother and father bade me come to you and tell you that your husband has at long last returned…"

Anatse smiling at the girl, nodded and returned to her business saying that she would return to the city shortly. Yet her heart was aflutter, she had long waited for his return and no manner of ill news could banish the smile that was upon her lips, she knew he needed time in Gondor to make secure his throne and to ensure that the Lords of Gondor complied with his wishes. She did not expect it to take this many years yet she was glad that he had finally returned; when her business with the farmers was resolved she leapt upon her horse and sped down the great Eastern road to the gates of the city, her black hair flowing behind her, catching the light of the sun in bright obsidian rivulets. The hooves of her horse and the bells upon its bridle made a bright and gay sound as she raced through the city streets to her home, where she knew he would go after the meeting with the council. The Hamadjon guards that stood watch over her home bowed their heads to her as she ran through the door,

"Cirya! Cirya!"

She called out his name, over and over again, yet no sound came to greet her; she ran throughout the house but could find no stirring of life, not even a whisper. Her brow furrowed as she strode through the rooms and finally found a bent figure crouching by the hearth of the kitchen, his sable velvet cloak shimmering upon the floor. He knelt there talking to a small boy with hair deep black and curled like his mother's; when Anatse entered the room Ciryaher straightened his back and turned, almost reluctantly to face her. The few short years apart from her seemed to have aged him for the lines upon his face were deeply cut and his hair was grayer than it had been when he left; his back also seemed strained, like it was carrying so much weight. Anatse, unheeding this, ran to him, took his head in her hands and kissed him with such a ferocity that he staggered back to catch himself from falling. Smiling she looked into his eyes, which were filled with sorrow and said,

"At long last you return to me, welcome home, my husband! How is Osgiliath? Have things been set aright?"

He looked at her and then turned his face to the young child,

"Cedladl, go into the other room and play…your mother and I must speak with one another."

The boy silently went into the room next door, followed by his father; Ciryaher shut the door, lingering there for a little while, his back turned to Anatse. She followed him and placed her hand gently upon his shoulder,

"Cirya? What is the matter?"

"Please Anatse…don't call me that."

"Why? What happened in the West? Did that rabble take your kingdom from you? Fear not if this is so, we can make you a chieftain of the Utashtegu, as my father was and you can rule a new land here in the East, where your family is!"

"For once in your life woman be silent!"

The anger and fierceness of the voice that uttered from him was so alien that she staggered back; he turned, averting his gaze from her, his eyes red with tears, which soaked his beard along with the mucus that drained out of his nose. He looked like a creature long defeated but still strong and hale, Anatse made to approach him but he held her back,

"I can't Anatse…I am…married."

"Of course you are my love…to me. Tell me what troubles your heart and we can find a solution, together…"

"No…I am married…to you no longer. The bonds that once bound us, as husband and wife, have been severed, I did so this afternoon with the chief magistrate and the Lord Pallando, I only need your consent."

Anatse shook her head, anger and sorrow now beginning to rise in her breast,

"I received no warning of this. Cirya, what is the meaning of this!"

"I would spare you any further disgrace to your people, please Anatse give me your consent now and no one shall be made aware of what has happened here."

"Do you think I care what you would do to me in public! Tell me why? What have I done to merit this cruel action?"

Ciryaher looked at her, like a sick child and sat upon a chair in front of the hearth,

"Before I met you, there was another…a young girl who visited my camps where my soldiers lodged. We spent a night together…I thought she was a simple prostitute…the camp was full of them that night and the wine was freely given and I took too much…"

Anatse reared back as she closed her eyes trying to shut the next few words that would come from his mouth,

"She…she bore me a child, a son…I did not know…"

Her lips quivering Anatse held her arms around her waist as though trying to prevent her entrails from spilling upon the floor. She fell to her knees and instinctually Ciryaher rose to come to her aid; he stooped down to pick her up but like a wild cat she dug her nails into his face and left three small cuts upon his cheek. Screaming he staggered back holding his hand to his cheek where a tiny amount of blood trickled down his face. She stood, her hands balled in fists, screaming like a wounded animal she said,

"Do not touch me!"

"Understand I did what I had to…you are still my love, my soul!"

"You would abandon me, to marry some…opportunistic wretch, with whom you shared a bed for one night? Have all our nights together and all our embraces and joys meant nothing!"

"You do not understand! She was of noble blood; if the people had found out that I had treated a noble woman as such the scandal would have destroyed me, the people would have turned from me and plunged all I have made into chaos! She bore me a son and he has children of his own…I could not treat them like that!"

"So you decide it is best to treat me this way? Because I did not bed you first and only gave you one son? Now I am the harlot, the one to be shoved aside for one of your own kind?"

She beat her hands against his chest tearing herself away from him as he tried to restrain her,

"Anatse…The council would have placed Alcarin in my place…"

"Alcarin? Is this the name of the usurper, the bastard son of a…"

Ciryaher became angry now and struck her across the face,

"Do not call him that!"

Yet immediately he regretted his actions as she stood tall now against him; grabbing him by the cuff of his tunic and with unlooked for strength she thrust him from the room into the hallway. He fell upon his face and turned to face her, though a strong soldier still he did not wish to harm her more than he already had and stood to meet her as she came toward him like a lioness ready to pounce,

"Get out! Get out of my house!"

"Anatse…"

He tried to plead with her,

"Anatse please listen to me."

She stopped where she stood and looked at him coldly, breathing heavily he said slowly,

"My soul yearns to stay here with you, you know it in your heart of hearts, that I …I…I love you. But for the sake of my people and the dignity of my father's throne I had to do what was necessary! But do not think I would abandon you so harshly! I have made provisions, for you and for Uialasse. You are to be made a Favourite of the King, a lady among the council if you so wish, you may even lead your people out of the desert to better more fruitful lands! And he, my child, is to be an adopted heir to the throne of Gondor and treated as a prince of the realm should be; you would not have to worry or toil any more…I can still take care of you, though I can no longer call you my wife!"

Anatse was now furious with rage, it seemed as though the gentle waves of her hair had turned into a torrent that plagued the shores of the sea from time to time.

"So now I have come from wife to harlot to concubine- oh how my lover does treat me with such respect and courtesy? What greater joy can I have than to be named a favourite of the king and have all of Gondor look upon me and my people with scorn! Take your offer and shove it into your new wife's throat for all I care, I am sure it is deep enough with much practice…I will have nothing to do with your kingdom, not as your Favorite or any other title you wish to bestow upon me!"

"But my son…"

Anatse let out a laugh that was cruel and menacing now,

"Do you think that with such crudeness you can take him from me?"

"He is my son Anatse and as a son of Gondor, he should be raised among his people!"

"He _is_ among his people! The people who will truly love him and give him honor and praise as the son of a noble line, a line of wisdom and honor and strength! You will not lay one hand on him as long as I live; you will not take him to be raised as you were and to treat those he professes to love like such burdensome chattel!"

"Anatse…"

"Leave my house!"

He stood to approach her but she held out her hand, pointing at him in an expression of cursing, her eyes lit with an ancient and powerful fire,

"I swear upon the blood of my ancestors you shall know no joy and no peace while you have wronged me and my son! No smile shall come upon your lips for the pain you have caused and may the gods themselves curse you with such grief. Your wealth will bring you no happiness and your kingdom though it prosper shall bring you no joy or peace to your toils…Leave me and return to your whore!"

The shouts of Anatse brought forth the Hamadjon guards that were stationed throughout the house; with swords and axes drawn they appeared into the hallway. Ciryaher was taken from where he stood and thrust out into the street; angrily he slammed his fists against the door yet was met with silence. Anatse stood where the door had closed and waited until he at long last left, before she fell to her knees and wept in despair.

In the next days, Ciryaher made trips to the house of Anatse to plead with her to give him his son yet was again met with silence, finally upon the day he was to leave Anatse came to the door. Tall and hale she would not let him enter but forced him to speak with her in the public streets of Khavul; her arms crossed over her breast she looked at as one with a cold heart and her piercing gray eyes bore into his chest.

"Anatse please…do not condemn our son to living out here, where he can be forgotten. In Gondor he will want for nothing, I will treat him as a prince and will deny him nothing."

"You cannot take him…he is no longer in Khavul. I sent him to live with his grandmother's people in the fastness of the mountains, to learn the ways of his people. You cannot have him and if you march to take him you will crush your forces upon the mountains like a breeze thrust against a stone. No hospitality shall you meet in the desert lands, the land of my people. Leave now Hyarmendacil, and do not grace Khavul with your shadow…it is no longer welcome here."

With that she turned from him and re-entered her house; Ciryaher made to approach but the Hamadjon guards crossed their spears and would not let him enter. Ciryaher journeyed then back into Gondor and no longer made the journey into the East, now ruling his empire from Osgiliath with his son Alcarin by his side.


	5. A new visitor

_The events in the Celebrin storyline now take place several years after Ciryaher conquered the Harad; the rough estimate of the time period is between 1070 and 1080 0f the Third Age._

* * *

The rain fell hard upon the ground and echoed in great torrents in the cave that Celebrin had made his home. They ran deep into the sides of the gorge and connected to many chambers, one of which was Celebrin's bed chamber, a round room roughly 12 meters in diameter, upon the floor beside a dug- in hearth lay a straw mat, made of reeds that grew by the stream that ran through the canyon. To the right of this chamber lay a narrow and low hallway that ran for several meters long in a dark ascent to two other chambers. The first was the store room for the vegetables and roots the elf farmed and grew upon his garden terraces; there was corn there, grains of different sizes, textures and uses; onions and potatoes were there as well. Garlic, peppers and various wild herbs, both edible and medicinal hung from the low ceiling of the cavern wall; this store room had a large narrow doorway that opened out into the sheer canyon wall and was the main entrance way, accessible by a light rope ladder that descended to the terraced gardens. At this store room the hallway leveled and opened at last to a long chamber, twice as high as a man's height; here Celebrin's horse, Durandir, rested and ate of the grain Celebrin had stored for him, for the monsoon season, when the desert became deluged with rain and the sparse grasslands were submerged in water. The stable opened sideways to the cavern and a near perfect slope rose to meet the entrance; this Durandir used to come and go from the caverns as he wished, yet he only stayed in the stable when Celebrin bade him to stay. In these chambers, the elf of Doriath made his home; he did not know the craft of mining or carving a suitable dwelling out of stone, but he made use of it as best an elf of Menegroth could.

The other chambers were too small to be of use, save for the storing of grain or the treasures he had taken with him into the wilderness; of these the chief was Lin-gladaear, the song of the wood and sea, his father's elegant sword. This he kept in a small chamber stored behind a large stone, away from the temptation to be used, for Celebrin feared his father's sword. The blade was wrought by a Noldor sword-smith in Nargothrond, whose eager hands made such deadly art. Whenever he held it, Celebrin felt the hunger for battle writhing up his arm and the sword longed to avenge the death of its former keeper. When Tinnu Elorn, Celebrin's father, was killed in the last siege of Doriath, he was hewn by Noldorin blades, wrought by the same hands of the sword-smith of Nargothrond. Ever since then the song the blade sang was that of vengeance and it was for that reason that Celebrin kept it hidden away, fearful to glorify it as he did his other treasures of his lost past. It was a beautiful weapon, though, its hilt was long and curved, a beautiful sea green wood dyed a dark sable blue, taken from the shores of Balar; upon it was wrought silver willow leaves that twined their way up to the blade crossing one another in a dance of chaotic order. The curved one-sided blade was pale silver and etched with the name of the weapon and the emblem of a sea-turtle that bore a star upon its back, this was the symbol of his father, and the willow leaves were for his mother, the lady of the willows as she was called in Doriath.

Every so often Celebrin would remove it from its hiding place and run his fingers over the craftsmanship, remembering his childhood when he would help his father polish it and remove the stains of orc blood. Then the sword's song spoke of other deeds and other dreams besides vengeance; it sang of a land in a distant dream, where tall and ancient woods ran up to the very shores of the sea and the two lands were in a gentle peace. It was on this night, as the monsoon raged through the canyon in its third unceasing day of deluge, that Celebrin found himself admiring the sword of his father, remembering the elf and the last time he saw him, alive.

His memories flitted back to that fateful day…

* * *

the land his father was in charge of, as herald of Celeborn and captain of the Marshland guard, was Aelin-Uial, the southernmost region of Doriath before the Falls of Sirion, which were the border of Thingol's land. The Marshland Guard was charged in ancient times, when the Girdle still stood, with riding ferries through the mist covered marshlands and finding wayfarers or those lost in the mist, be they orc or elf or man. The orcs they slew of course and the elves they led to the road that led to Menegroth, the men were turned away or brought to another less densely covered area of the Girdle, thinking they had strayed into a dream world. His father, as a former elf of the sea, was charged with manning the ferries on the marshlands of Aelin-uial and the boats that went up and down Sirion in the days of peace. Yet in those last days of King Dior's reign a threat was coming from the north, Noldor horns had been heard in the northern borders and Celeborn had called his herald to be with him in Menegroth. An order had gone out from Dior himself that the Sindar should seek shelter either in Menegroth or south to the last refuge ruled by Cirdan. The entire land of Aelin-Uial was in an uproar and people moved here and there, making provisions for the journey north. His mother was arguing with his father as he a young ellon barely come of age, sat fingering the sharp blade, listening to them,

"Why do we run to Menegroth? The Ngoldo will certainly attack there first; we are safer here Elorn! The Girdle may be gone but the mists and marshes will protect us long as they have these past many years."

"The orders are clear Tathiril, I must journey to Menegroth; if you do not wish to go then take the boats at the Falls and go to the Southern shores. Stay with Nolwe, my kinsman, until this disagreement dies down. But you cannot remain here, my entire garrison is heading north and Aelin-Uial will be defenseless save for a few guards and scouts…"

"Perhaps we can go with my kinsmen…the Nandor…"

"…They have fled Beleriand for their homes in Ossiriand or beyond to the Ered Luin; what safety you could have found in them is long gone. When Luthien died they left Beleriand to its fate, for good or ill…No my love it is either to Menegroth or to Balar."

Elorn placed his firm yet tender hand upon his wife's cheek, caressing it, young Celebrin, stood at this,

"I will go with you father, though I do not have a sword, my skills with a bow are good enough."

Elorn looked at his son and smiled weakly; though he had come of age decades ago he was still small for his age and looked much younger than his peers. It was a side-effect of his birth, always born to be too short or too small or too weak to fulfill his expectations. No livery in all of Doriath would fit the youth and his smooth almost feminine face had long earned him some jeering remarks and shoving when he was in school, so much so that Elorn saw to it to train his own son in the art of combat, for he feared he would be injured more in the school of arms. Elorn shook his head,

"Battle is not for you my son, not yet, you must stay with your mother…"

"All my peers are gone to battle and have weaponry of their own! They stood by their fathers defending this land from orcs and dwarves and yet I am to remain with the women and children?"

"Do you think this is a bad charge? While others have gone to war some must remain behind to defend the others…it is a noble obligation."

At this the youth scoffed and turned away, dropping Lin-gladaear onto the floor of their home. Elorn made to follow his son, but Tathiril stopped him,

"I know you fear for him Elorn…but you cannot expect him to rise to greatness if you keep treating him like a child."

"But he is so small Tathiril! He is too small to enter battle. He would be lost amid the horrors of open-field battle…"

"Yes he is small, but you said yourself his heart is fiercer than others twice his size…I admit I may have coddled him a bit over much, teaching him the feminine crafts of weaving and dancing, but that should not disqualify him from military service if his heart desires it…I do not wish for my only son to go to war Elorn…but I do not wish to see him slighted so either, especially since…"

Tathiril cried at this, yet shook the emotion from her face, allowing the tears that flowed from the corners of her green eyes to show her fear; she stooped and picked up the sword she had had made for her husband and handed it to him,

"He may not be skilled in open-field battle, but he was trained by the greatest bowman Doriath has ever known. He will be safer and of more use in the trees with the scouts and guards…"

"But you and the others…"

"We maidens and matrons have skills of battle of our own Elorn…need I remind you of it?"

At this she smirked at him and they shared a silent laugh, this Celebrin watched and heard from behind the doorway he had just exited. He would go to Menegroth with his father and the rest of the garrison, while his mother and the other wives and daughters made ready to move their people to Menegroth, where they hoped safety would hold them until the Noldor could be turned aside…

* * *

Celebrin shook the memory from his mind, and as he did so the rain outside seemed to shake the very foundations of the cavern floor. His ears pricked up as thunder rolled through the sky and yet one sound was out of place; he stood from where he sat by the hearth and moved to the low narrow hallway that led to the storeroom and stable. Durandir was neighing loudly and giving out a great cry amid the thundering cracks of lighting and torrential rain. Celebrin stood tying the sword to a place on his belt; the horse rarely neighed unless it was startled, perhaps it was just a snake or small rabbit that had wandered into the stable, trying to find shelter from the rain. Either way Durandir was distressed and it seemed best to find the intruder and either kill it or drive it away. He bent low at the waist to enter the dark hallway; he needed no lamp or lantern for his elf eyes were accustomed to the darkness of the caves. He came to the dark and dry storage room, the only sound was emanating from his own breath; suddenly the sound of a jar shattering entered his ears and he quickly turned to the corner of the store room where a clay jar of dried figs lay broken on the floor, beside it a pale gray and brown cat stood sniffing the contents of the jar. Sighing a bit of relief Celebrin knelt beside the jar and laughed; the cat was a frequent visitor to his store room especially if he had dried fish or venison hanging in the store room. He let the feline caress itself on his outstretched hand,

"So you are the one who angered Durandir…it comes as no surprise, he hates sharing his quarters with anyone. I must admit I have no fish or venison for you today my friend but if you are hungry there may be some rabbit I can treat you to. It is dry and over cooked but perhaps you will enjoy it more than me…"

He pointed his finger to the dark hallway and the direction of his main quarters; the cat jumped from where it stood and as if by unheard orders walked in the direction that Celebrin pointed. As he followed the cat his foot fell upon a puddle, it did not feel like water, for it was warm and stuck to his feet like slick oil or blood. His keen eyes opened wide and he saw a glint of red surrounding his foot, reflected by the light that entered the door to the store house; it was followed by another larger one that led into where the stable was. The imprint of blood was too large to be the cat's, in fact it looked more like the foot of a man that was wounded and dragging a broken leg, the right leg to be exact. The footprints led not toward the stable but into the storage room; Celebrin's ears pricked up as the sound of thunder crash around him, obscuring any sound of movement. When the thunder ceased he heard a low and pained moan coming from one of the recesses of the cave; as he approached it slowly he felt the sticky wetness of freshly spilt blood on the floor. The moans became louder and were now accompanied by fits of wet hacking and coughing; when he finally found the source Celebrin spoke out in Alamb-Harad,

"Do not worry I will not harm you…Come out and let me treat your wounds."

The moans only became louder and seemed to respond with words of its own; the language was unintelligible, whether it was because the moans were muddling the sound or because this person came from unknown lands Celebrin could not say. There in the darkness he could not see what manner of person it was, man, woman, or child; his keen eyes would only let him see a dim figure crouched in a fetal position in the far corner. The voice was low, like a wounded animal and broken as though something was obstructing the air leaving the throat; Celebrin knew the sound well from his days as a healer in Imladris during the war, when soldiers would come back with arrows or deep cuts in their throats. He made his way toward the figure, which recoiled as the sound of the elf's footsteps approached it; slowly Celebrin laid his hand on what he assumed to be the shoulder of the wounded person; it felt muscled yet lithe and at first recoiled to the touch. Celebrin's eyes fixed on the creature and found it to be tall, or at least tall at one point, for now it was bent; the width of the shoulders seemed to indicate a male, though having known the Hamadjon, even women could have as broad a pair of shoulders. Slowly the figure calmed and allowed Celebrin to come nearer to it; despite the moaning and fetal position, Celebrin was able to pick up the poor creature and take it to where his lodgings were. Just as he had carried Alphindil around their home in Mithlond, Celebrin was careful as he went through the narrow passageway, the wounded figure finally giving in to the pain and passing out. He carried the limp figure to where his bed was; the cat was purring by the low fire and came expectantly to greet Celebrin, nuzzling him on his legs. When Celebrin had laid the bloody figure on his reed mattress the cat jumped onto the mattress and nuzzled the prone figure licking the blood off of its crumpled hands.

"So he belongs to you eh?"

, said Celebrin, noticing now that the injured figure was indeed male, for the clothes he wore were thread bare and barely hung off of his body. Celebrin turned and set new logs upon the fire, stoking it until it gave a great light, filling the entire cave with warmth and a reddish gold glow. He turned to face the man he had brought into his home; his face was horribly mangled and his jaw was severely broken, shifted far to the left. His chest and legs had suffered much, for many deep gashed and black bruises covered his body. His hands, which had not moved were stuck in a contorted almost tortured position, held close to his breast. His hair was a dark black, almost and black as Celebrin's own hair, and if no blood now marred it it would have shimmered well in the fire light. Throughout the rest of the night, Celebrin heated water and boiled a medicinal herb that was found in the gorge which ceased the flow of blood; with this he cleaned the wounds of the man, then he dressed the wounds that were not severe and with his needle and thread sewed the ones too open to seal on their own. A few ribs were broken as well as was his right leg, which was reset and put in a splint, the ribs he reset and wrapped tightly so that they did not move over much as the man breathed while he slept.

The cat, once it had been fed took up the warm place by the hearth and there slept throughout the night. Celebrin's work lasted throughout the entire night and as the first rosy tips of dawn touched the washed clean land, Celebrin buried the blood-soaked linens he had used; wiping the beads of sweat from his brow, he returned to his cave to see if the man stirred. The man still slept, his jaw, ribs, legs and arms were heavily bandaged and bruises covered most of his body that which was not already cut or stitched together. He could not yet tell what land this man came from, for much of his skin was burnt by the sun or covered in dark purple bruises. In his morning wanderings, Celebrin found the place where the man had fallen, several jagged rocks beneath the main entrance to his cave still bore the markings of blood, yet much evidence of it was washed away by the deluge. Celebrin rubbed his eyes as weariness began to over take him; he had not expended that much energy in healing in a long time and it took much out of him to remember and sing the old songs of healing that he had learned from the Nandor. They were songs of stopping the flowing of blood and songs to mend broken bones rightly and many more besides to increase the healing power of the herbs. He sat upon the ledge that was the entrance to his cave, looking out at the fresh new world, the red muddy clay sending up fragrant aromas. He slept then, though his eyes were ever open, treading off into dreams of far gone days and days yet to come.


	6. Turning point

Several days would pass before the man stirred at all, the deep sleep he had fallen into was fortunate, for the bones had not yet fully healed and if he had awoken before his major wounds were healed he could have entered shock. Celebrin watched over him, tending to the wounds and cleaning his bandages; the cat, which had begun to take a liking to Celebrin brought dead rodents and rabbits when it could, as gifts, which the elf gladly took, though in truth all he did was feed the cat with them. The sun's rays made quick work of the muddy land and dried it into hard clay that cracked in the bright heat of the summer. When at last the stranger stirred he just mumbled a few unintelligible words and then drifted off back to sleep; it was then that the elf judged it good to give him water and some light broth to feed his tired and hungry body. The next few days followed and still the stranger moaned and tossed his head in unknown nightmares and dreams, which pained him, until one day he finally cried out his eyes bursting open in an unknown terror. Celebrin held him down to keep him from hurting himself or opening the wounds that were stitched shut; the scare passed and soon he returned to his former calm and long breaths. The next day the stranger awoke, his eyes fluttering open as his fever had passed; Celebrin sat in front of him watching him as he awoke; he was careful to try to not startle the stranger and so he put on the garb of a desert hermit and covered his long black hair in a shawl, taking care to cover the leaf-tip points of his ears. He covered his face in dirt to obscure the agelessness of his visage and eyes. When the stranger stirred and lifted his head weakly, Celebrin spoke in Alamb-Harad,

"Good morning stranger, you have slept long but do not worry, you are safe here."

The quizzical look the stranger gave him seemed to indicate that he did not understand what was said; Celebrin then said the same words in Ayabilam, the tongue of the Ayab-mamuk, and then spoke using the language of the Hamadjon, and even the language of Numenor neither being successful. Finally he spoke what little he knew of the languages of the Khand, which was still more than most in those lands. To this the stranger coughed seeming to want to speak, though his throat was very dry. After drinking a little water he said,

"Xin xe"

, which was simply, _Thank you_ in the Khand tongue of the farthest east, where the land met the unseen ocean. After this he drifted off to sleep again and did not wake until near midnight. The next few days Celebrin watched over the stranger and left a bit of broth and water by his bed, when he left to gather grain and fruits that had ripened. After about two days the stranger was able to sit up and maneuver his arms to hold his soup and water bowls on his own. He began to speak some more, mostly asking where he was and who Celebrin was; yet his voice was still hoarse and his speech labored for he could not move his jaw much. Celebrin did not ask from what land the young man came from nor did he reveal who and what he was, saying he was only an ascetic monk who had come to live in the wilderness to learn the true meaning of life. This earned a chuckle from the stranger,

"So you have no name to give me?"

He asked, his still raspy voice obscuring and influencing his speech; intently he looked at the elf who only looked at him back in silence, wearing a slight smile.

"Very well, if you have no name I can give you mine…I am Lhiuwan…"

"So they called you an exile, in the place you came from?"

The mans eyebrows lifted, or at least lifted as much as his swollen face would allow him,

"So you know much of our language? More than you gave on before"

"I have not always lived in such remote places…I once lived in the center of the world."

Lhiuwan looked intently at Celebrin and only smiled, he coughed a little trying to clear his scratchy throat, which pained him. He reached for his bowl but his mangled hands could not wrap themselves around it and it tumbled over spilling the water onto the ground. Celebrin stood at this and took up the bowl, taking it to the cistern near the entrance where rain water gathered. As Celebrin refilled it he noticed that the frustrated young man, looked at his gnarled, twisted fingers that were tightly wrapped in linen. When Celebrin walked back to him he gently tipped the bowl to the young man's lips; with a disarming look the elf asked softly,

"Your hands did not seem to be injured in the fall…in fact they look as though they were burned."

"You…are very perceptive."

"Is this why you fell?"

The young man just nodded, trying to hold back some tears of a past memory, Celebrin's brow furrowed and he said softly,

"You do not need to tell me why. Rest now, the hour is getting late."

With that the elf helped the young man to lie on his back and went to his own reed mattress. The young man's moans entered his ears all through the night, yet this is not what kept him awake; as a healer in Imladris he often fell asleep to sounds of the war-wounded. What kept him awake rather was the thoughts of the young man's burned hands. Exile was a common punishment for wrong doing in these lands and often the travelers that ended up in his corner of the wilderness were shunned from their homes, sentenced to wander the roads and receive no aid from any. To ensure this an ancient symbol was usually burned upon their foreheads and this was one of the few universal symbols of the world. Yet this youth bore no marking of the exile, yet "exile" was the meaning of his name in his home tongue. The burning of hands was a common punishment for thieves among the Ayab-Mamuk; yet this youth was not of that people. The riddle of this youth perplexed him, yet by the traditions of hospitality he would not force him to reveal his past, nor cause him pain, or let harm come to him. They were the traditions of the East, yet he had followed them for so long it seemed like second nature to him, even though he did not give it the divine importance that others in the East did. Regardless, if this youth was a criminal Celebrin could not let any come to harm him, of that much he was certain.

His mind then turned to how best to treat the burned hands, for they seemed to be fresh and infected, which is what perhaps prevented him from fully using them. He knew of a poultice that could ease the pain and allow his hands to move again-with time, yet the herbs to make it grew far from this area and it would take him several days to retrieve them. The next morning he was resolved to obtain them and told Lhiuwan that he would only be gone a few days at the most. The young man silently assented and watched as Celebrin left the cave, taking Durandir southward away from the canyon, following the stream that led to the northern border of the Talath Anorui. Once he reached the vast desert he turned eastward until he came to the Ute road, the road that led from Khavul to the northern fastness of the Orocarni. He did not wish to venture to the city, though his heart yearned to find news of his daughter and her son; to see if peace still ruled the lands. Yet this still seemed to be the case, for the Ute road was still intact and caravans carrying spices, metals and precious stones walked freely and without guard upon its bricks. One thing now seemed amiss, for when he left all those years ago, the roads were still guarded by the Gondorians, even of the garrison of Narmacil. The road was now guarded by Hamadjon and Utashtegu warriors, who guarded the wells at the cross roads, where the Ute road ended. Celebrin kept his face veiled, still in the garb of a hermit and no one paid him any mind as he crossed the Ute road and went further eastward to the plain of the plateaus where the roots of Ilmarin once stood. The land had changed much in his time away; the plain had become new grassland, filled with golden and green grasses that waved to and fro in the winds that came from the mountains. The yellow river still flowed muddy and slow, yet now multi-hued flowers grew upon its banks, twisting in the wind, like several jewels upon an elvish princess's necklace. The herbs he needed grew plentiful now and he gathered what he needed and more, for he felt that he would not be able to make the return journey if the first poultice did not take.

One his way back he followed a caravan carrying dried teas, silks and flowers to the cross roads; these traders gave Durandir figs and apples and stroke up a brief conversation with Celebrin, asking him where he came from and what he was doing in these lands. Celebrin told them he was an old hermit who lived in the mountains and he was gathering medicines for his store. They simply nodded; they were from Middle Khand, the land just beyond the yellow river and had crossed at the ford nearby; he asked them what brought them upon this road rather than the Khand road further south that entered straight into Khavul. One of them, the older one, whose braided beard almost reached his waist, sighed and speaking in Alamb-Harad he said,

"That road is not so well traveled anymore friend. Ever since the Westerners left, the old Evil Harad raid it and it is far too dangerous. This road is watched much better by the Hamadjon and Utashtegu, so we take this one to avoid being raided."

"How is it that the Western men left? Were they defeated in battle?"

The younger one laughed,

"Defeated? In a manner of speaking yes…Their king was defeated…by his queen."

Celebrin's eye brow pricked up, this was the first time he had heard mention of his daughter and it took every nerve in his body not to probe further and betray his interest. He simply shrugged his shoulders and said,

"Oh?"

The young one leaned in as his father drank strong smelling ale from a goatskin,

"A long time ago the King betrayed his queen and she banished him from the lands, yet his soldiers remained to guard the roads. The western traders charged far too much for their goods while wanting to buy ours for a cheap price, next to nothing…such an outrage was tolerated when their king lived in Khavul and they had just defeated the…the dark one."

The young man looked left and right as though the very mention of Khamul would bring him into their presence, he then continued,

"Well after the king left the traders still wanted to have their same arrangement…and worse, they wanted Khavul and its council to pay for its liberation by seeking taxes on the roads guarded by their soldiers. The queen, may the stars bless her, thought this unfair and she ruled that taxes would rather be placed on the westerners and that their goods would no longer be subsidized by ours."

The young man laughed; Celebrin still feigning detached interest asked him,

"How do you know all this?"

"My father was a young merchant then, he and his fellow merchants brought the issue up to the queen herself when the Westerners first tried to obtain taxes from him as he crossed the Khand road into Khavul. When she levied a tax on the Westerners they grew furious and wanted their king to send an army to enforce their treaties. But he, limp-wristed, would not dare go against the Lady of Khavul…so he instead withdrew his guards. A few extra miles to the North is not so bad a trade off, since we don't have to deal with those Western barbarians anymore, at least outside of Khavul's market."

Celebrin nodded his head and even laughed when the young merchant did; the older man patted his son on the shoulders and told him to ride ahead and make sure the guards knew what goods they were carrying. The old man then turned to Celebrin saying,

"My son is very passionate; he hates the westerners most fervorently and I fear I am the one who taught him that hate, please forgive his impetuousness…he should not have spoken so in front of a holy man."

"I am no holy man, friend, just a traveler and desert-dweller."

"Your eyes give you away… they are filled with thoughtfulness and much learning, far too much to be a simple desert beggar. And no regular hermit would travel so far from his home to gather medicinal herbs unless he had some herb lore or need of them. Since you do not have any burns on you I doubt what you carry is for yourself…I think it is for another."

Celebrin chuckled at this,

"You are very wise my friend, and very observant. You are right, these herbs are not for me…"

"Who are they for?"

"A stranger who stumbled upon my home, he was badly wounded and he says he was an exile, but his forehead bears no mark…his hands though…his hands are cruelly burned, as though he held onto a coal or freshly heated steel for a long time…"

As he said this the old man's eyes grew wide open , trembling the old man said,

"Do not keep this stranger in your home for too long friend…you are good man and a holy one, tend him and then tell him to go."

"But why? Do you know this man?"

"No…but I know the mark…it is the Mark of Lhiuwan."

"Who is Lhiuwan?"

The old man pressed his lips together, not wanting to speak, but looking at the dark eyes of Celebrin he said slowly,

"Lhiuwan is a demon of the ancient world; they say his eyes are black as the void between the stars and he cries out in moans of pain as he wanders the dark places of the world. He comes as one who is wounded and in need of great care, and when you have cared for him he betrays you and steals the light of your soul, occupying your body and using your hands to commit the gravest of sins…This demon is said to infect young men so that he may pass among the living and perform his horrendous deeds. They steal treasures from the sacred places and force themselves upon their kinswomen. They know no lack of lust and thievery. They kill their loved ones and torture them in slow and painful deaths and the only cure and punishment is for their hands to be burned. The demon lives within their hands and must be exorcised out; their hands are first boiled and then they are forced to hold the burning kettle until it cools. Then they are exiled, and given no quarter for the evils they have done."

When he had finished Celebrin felt like vomiting; that mortals could do such a thing to another person was horrendous though he doubted Lhiuwan, or whatever he was truly called, could ever have done anything to warrant that punishment. His eyes, or what he saw of them, were kind and he seemed to show deep remorse and shame for his past. The old man shivered as he told the story and when he finished he gave one more warning for Celebrin to turn the exile out of his home and to chase him away before he come to danger. The two traders left him and Celebrin waited for the cover of night to leave the crossroads, taking unknown roads westward, where he could not be spotted or heard by the guards watching over the well. Celebrin rode Durandir to their home in the canyon, all the while his thoughts questioned the tales told by the old man and his son.

* * *

Meanwhile the two travelers made their way down the Ute road to the first tributaries of the Khavul river, that flowed strong out of the Orocarni and other underground wellsprings. The river flowed southward in a straight current to a city lit with amber light, filled with many voices and many songs. This was Khavul the capital city of the Council of the Seven Nations of the Red Mountains and where Queen Ashthera sat hearing the complaints of traders from the West.

One of these traders spoke loudly and in an angry voice,

"This is outrageous! You are in clear violation of the treaty set forth in the founding of this city!"

The queen calmly looked upon the red-faced man, as he paced the chamber and the fur trim of his coat dragged across the terra cotta tiles. The queen was dressed in the green of new summer and her veil was the light sable blue of the summer sky at night time. Her eyes, deep and ruddy brown, an almost garnet color, watched as he paced. At long last she spoke, raising her hands to silence a delegation from the Harad lands who had objected to what was just said.

"What offenses have we committed Dranear, that causes you to rail at this council so?"

"You have persecuted and deliberately disfavored my tradesman in order to…to enact the vengeance of a woman scorned!"

The eyes of those gathered turned to a woman who sat with the delegation of the Utashtegu and the Hamadjon. Her black hair was tied tightly in a braid that descended her back; she turned to look at the man in the center of the council chamber, her gray eyes piercing his very soul, she said nothing, and simply looked at him with her ageless eyes, burning into him. Queen Asthera stood at this and descended the dais she sat upon,

"The treaty clearly states that all men and all nations are to be treated equally within these lands and the city of Khavul shall be home to all of them. The taxes and tolls placed upon the four roads were done to pay for the guards that now watch them, since your king removed his support. They are the same taxes paid by the traders from Harad and the lands of the Mamuk, they are the same tolls placed upon those who travel from Khand and the farthest reaches of the north and south…Tell me Dranear, have the tolls been more heavily placed upon Gondor?"

The man grew red and furious now,

"But…"

"And would you fault the traders of the other lands that come to sell in Khavul, when they sell their goods at an equal price to your own? Competition is the rule of the marketplace Dranear…if no one is buying your goods, perhaps you need to sell them better."

At this some in the council laughed; Dranear grew even more red,

"And what of the raids? My traders are constantly attacked by Harad who come from the wilderness surrounding the Old Harad road, and yet your Hamadjon have not been there to protect them!"

At this a tall olive skinned man with a short cropped beard stood,

"You accuse us of raiding your caravans? When it is clearly the work of Dark Numenoreans who pirate the goods of OUR traders and who attack the Khand road daily, filling the coffers no doubt of Osgiliath, who tolerates them living so close to the borders of our lands."

Before an argument could erupt the queen raised her hands,

"Enough of this bickering…you are men, chosen to represent and rule your people, not to bicker like children…it is clear to me now that a third evil is causing the strain between our peoples, when once there was peace. I shall send an envoy to King Hyarmendacil of Gondor to speak to him of these raids and to find the cause of it. It is enough for now, the stars have turned beyond the hour of rest…go now and rest with the sweetest of dreams."

When all the delegates and merchants left, Queen Ashthera removed her veil revealing her face in the emptiness of the council chamber. She removed the crown she wore and unbraided her long straight hair; her almond shaped eyes she wiped to ease away their tiredness. No longer was she Queen Ashthera, she was Tiane the wife of Peilun of the Blue Sickle clan, from the southern reaches of Khand, where the Khand and Harad mixed their bloods and allegiances. She was chosen several years ago after the queen before her was assassinated as she traveled along the Khand road; it was Tiane's people that hunted down the assassins and from them the next queen was chosen. A step fell in behind her and she quickly turned covering her face,

"Who is there?"

The shadowy figure walked into the light of the full moon that entered through an oculis at the zenith of the domed ceiling. Her long black, braided hair shimmered like a veil of stars as the moon touched it and her gray eyes showed worry and much toil. Tiane sighed relief,

"You should announce yourself Anatse…"

"And you should wait until you are in your private quarters to remove your garb…anyone could have walked in and seen who you really were. I am allowed to see you, for I once wore the veil of Ashthera, yet others would see you as defiled if your face were revealed."

"I know…I am still getting used to being the Queen and Mother of the People…"

"It is a difficult charge, but you are doing very well…your decision was rather diplomatic."

"I know it is not what you would have done…then again you would not have allowed such tensions to rise within the council."

"The council will create its own tensions, and the anger coming from Gondor could not be anticipated by anyone…the Queen must ease the tensions enough to let wisdom enter their minds…that is what mothers must do, when children quarrel."

"Why did you not accept the queenship when Amarenis died? The council offered it to you freely, you were no longer married to your Gondorian husband; you could have taken up the mantle again."

Anatse looked up at the full face of the moon shining upon them,

"The mantle is no longer for me…Besides, my son is of Western blood and while I took care of him I could not bear the mantle of the queen…"

"He comes of age soon, will you not take it up again?"

"Do you doubt your skill?"

Tiane nodded while biting her lip; Anatse laid her hands upon the younger woman's shivering shoulders, their eyes, one set gray the other redish hazel. If Anatse could give the young woman strength she would have, but she just sighed, holding Tiane tightly in a warm embrace saying,

"Strength and wisdom come to all who seek them…I would not have suggested you for the mantle of Queen, if I did not think you could bear it. Now who shall you send to speak with the King?"

Tiane's brow furrowed and she looked at Anatse, whom she saw as a dear older sister, especially since they were now bound by the goddess Ashthera and her heavy charge.

"I have but one person in mind…though do you think he is ready?"

Anatse looked worried into the distance, her mind and thoughts heading eastward, where the mountains loomed on the northern horizon,

"We shall see…He will leave as soon as you need him to."


	7. The Forgotten Son

_It has been a very long time sine I last posted, and for that I am terribly sorry. However, my absence from this site has not meant that I have not been busy; I have several new chapters to post so I hope you all enjoy them. Please, as always, read and feel free to review. _

* * *

The sun set uneasily behind the white mountain of Mindolluin setting the everwhite snow upon its height ablaze in brilliant shades of burning red and gold; yet at that time the earth began to shake and behind the Mountains of Shadow, which long fenced in what was left of the black land of Mordor, the fiery mountain Oroduin blazed forth and belched out it tempestuous rivers of flame. And so it was that Osgiliath trembled, the whole city fearing that the Dark Lord Sauron had at last returned; yet in the palace of the king, Alcarin, the son of the king sat untroubled by the thunderous noise outside. He reclined upon a seat made of the finest Harad gold and set in the shape of regal peacock at rest; the purple and sable velvet cushions shimmering in the setting light. A servant girl fed him wine from his goblet, while another uneasily combed his shimmering golden hair; yet both women looked about them in fear as the walls shook. The young man, sensing their apprehension laughed out loud the bold laughter of youth and brought one close to him to sit upon the couch,

"Mina be not frightened by the thundering of yonder mountain…Sauron is gone forever and this grumbling is but the mountain settling itself after many years of rest…come sit by me closer and sing me a song."

The young girl smiled at him and her nerves eased as the grumbling of the world ceased and the black fumes echoing forth from the black land ceased to be troublesome. She began singing slowly a soft tune from her homeland, a distant land near Umbar, in what was known as far Harad. In the youth of Hyarmendacil's reign, when the war with Khamul and Harad was in its infancy, her people were made subject to Gondor and ever after they brought tribute to the King and many sought employment in the fine houses of the Numenorean nobleman. The name of her people is lost to the memory of men as was their tongue. Though she sang a song, a lullaby, from her homeland, Alcarin closed his eyes and dreamt of riding off among the sand dunes of the Eastern wastelands to the South of Osgiliath, an action that would forever remain in his dreams. Suddenly his reverie was interrupted by the sure footed stomp of boots; scoffing the prince raised one eyebrow and peek out through a slit in his eye. The shadow of a tall man dressed in strange garb stood before him; Alcarin sat up and opened his eyes to see who now intruded on his sleep. Three men there were standing before him, one he knew to be his father's herald and chief servant, Beleg; Beleg was born of a noble line yet had ever sworn fealty to the line of Elendil- the blood of Numenor ran strongly in him and he showed it by the clear lordly gleaming of his face and the radiant black hair that crowned his head.

The other two wore the strange garb; it bore some similar aesthetics to that worn by dignitaries and fiefs from the southern lands in near Harad. Yet to the trained and learned eye, which the youth lacked much of, it was the garb from another land entirely, for the devices upon the fringe and the patterns upon their garb spoke of two separate peoples. One was older, roughly the age of the King, yet he was tall for a man of the East and bore himself as one born of Gondor, though his skin was bronze compared to the young man's milky white. His hair was pitch black, decorated with wisps of silver-white upon his temples and near the crown of his earlobes; he wore a light beard around his mouth and though his lips were ruby red from the parched sun-lands they fit easily into a bemused smirk upon seeing the young prince. His eyes were noble and kind, yet spoke more of a fierce warrior still capable of fighting ten scores of men, single-handedly; and unlike others who lived in the Harad, they were a bright emerald. He wore a blood red tunic upon which was worked fine bronze lilies and the figure of a hart running was worked into his collar. His pants were of a fine leather taken from the antelopes that ran across the plains of the River Ehuphradesh, which lay upon the Harad road, half way between Osgiliath and Khavul. He bore a twisted, slender horn upon his belt and his blade shimmered like cold steel in the fading light of sword stood out among all his garb for it was clearly, by design and insignia a sword of Gondor for it bore upon it the seal of Osgiliath and the code of arms of the Prince of Lossaranach. Alcarin was taken aback by this older man; for he looked upon the youth with disapproval, whereas other dignitaries always looked upon him with awe and deep respect.

Alcarin's eyes then turned to the other visitor and he saw a youth, barely beyond the age of 18; yet like the other he stood tall and proud, with his chin firmly set and his brilliant gray eyes observing the young prince intently. His hair was sable yet there was certain radiance to it as well, as though all the lights of the night sky were caught and reflected in it, like some still mirror of water. His skin was dark as his companion's and his almond shaped eyes were great pools of exploration and wonder. He wore a different style of garb from his companion; he was not dressed in great finery, but rather looked like a desert counterpart for the Gondorian rangers that scanned the wooded lands of Ithilien. He wore simple boots made of unknown coarse leather taken from mountain deer; his pants were made of earthen hued linen and showed patches where tears had once been. His tunic, tucked into his waist was black and of the same simple linen that made up his garb. He was covered in dirt, yet if one looked closer at him one would notice fine embroidery upon his garb; desert flowers and twisting vines decorated it. Upon his waist he wore a scratched and dirty belt with a buckle made of fine silver, the buckle was a hoop upon which was etched a scene, the riding of a warrior into battle. Blue tattoos could be seen upon his wrists and some which looked like words were etched into the webbing of his hand, between the thumb and pointer finger. A curved steel sword rested upon a ruby scabbard and the hilt, richly decorated silver, bore a simple rose upon the butt of the hilt. The youth also wore a collection of beaded necklaces upon his neck, from which hung a simple turquoise stone and a collection of bird's feathers.

"My lord?"

Alcarin's attention was brought back to the herald Beleg, the servant looked at him with expectant eyes as though he was a school teacher awaiting an answer from a student who took too long to say something. The prince stood, knocking the servant girl from her place by his seat and onto the marble floor, where she landed with a resounding thud. The prince, taking no heed of her looked at Beleg as one greatly disturbed,

"Beleg, what is the meaning of this…you know I do not greet guests at my hour of leisure."

"Forgive me my lord, but these emissaries from the city of Khavul have come to speak with the king and he is indisposed at the moment. So your father bid me bring them here and be treated to your house's fine hospitality."

The prince nodded, though grudgingly sighed as he clapped his hands and within an instant his frown turned into a quickly built smile as servants entered the room bringing fine, ornate couches.

"Of course, my father's guest must have the finest of his larder; come, my guests and rest a while till my father returns from other matters of state. Mina…Mina, get up and serve our guests some wine!"

,he said harshly to the young girl still seated upon the floor. As she got to her knees the young visitor stooped down and offered his hand to help her up,

"Allade me'ani…"

_Let me help you, sister…_

, he said in Alamb-Harad the common tongue of the East and South beyond the land of Gondor; the young woman smiled at him and bowed her head before turning upon her heel to retrieve the urn of wine that stood nearby. Alcarin smiled weakly at the young man's courtesy and opened his palm gesturing for them to sit,

"Please be seated, my father shall not be long…forgive me, your names have escaped me…you are?"

The older man sat first as the younger one took a standing position behind him as though he were a bodyguard,

"Forgive me, Prince of Gondor, our names and our purpose shall only be revealed to your father the King…though suffice it to say that we are from Khavul. I am chief herald of the Hamadjon and my companion is of the Utashtegu…"

Mina, the servant girl, bowed as she approached them, offering the sweet wine that had been poured into golden goblets. The older man took it gladly while the younger made a face of disgust but politely waved it away saying another few words in Alamb-Harad, which made the young girl laugh with scandalous excitement. Alcarin, never having learned the tongue of the east, chuckled a little feigning knowledge of it,

"Does the wine not suit you?...er… My lord, forgive me, does your servant not drink wine? I have ales, meads and other spirits aplenty if they will strike his fancy?"

The young man looked directly into Alcarin's eyes and said in clear Westron,

"Forgive me Prince Alcarin, I drink wine when the occasion and hour suit it. I merely told Mina that my people shun the metal you call _pharaz_… we call it…_theu-kitadle_."

The old man spit out what wine he was drinking and chuckled, saying in Alamb-Harad,

"Tanbe, inak al-himaden!"

_Young one, this place is not for that kind of language!_

To which the youth replied,

"Ushume Me'edin, Sha-haveth minlom"

_Forgive me, Uncle, I meant no disrespect._

Alcarin looked at the two of them silently, confused by their exchange; when the older man saw his expression he placed the goblet upon a table that was set and said in Westron,

"Forgive my friend's impertinence, my Prince."

"I would gladly forgive it if I knew what offence he hath laid upon me. Tell me, what does theu-kitladle mean?"

"It means… _shit _of the gods…he and his people shun it for they see it as an unclean metal. My young friend here merely told your servant girl that he does not drink out of _cups made of shit_."

At this Alcarin laughed, though neither guests' face showed that they were now jesting,

"You cannot be serious? You shun gold? That is simply…odd."

The old man cocked his eyebrow up and took a small sip of wine,

"What is odd in one land may be treasure in another…I was not aware that the hour for drinking sweet wine was now upon us…Last I remember, such sweet wine was served at the end of dinner, when night already covered the sky."

"I enjoy such strong wine at this hour, my lord, it eases the tattered nerves, even if it is uncommon among other Gondorian households. How curious that you know the customs of Numenor, stranger? I did not look for such knowledge from men of the East…"

The old man looked at him and said simply,

"The customs of Numenor are kept in the memory of those raised with them, my prince…and by those who still cherish and keep them, regardless of whom they are and where they now reside."

Alcarin was going to speak at this, yet the door to the chamber opened and Beleg walked in followed by King Hyarmendacil. The king, older now after many years, yet still bearing upon himself the vigor of his warrior days, strode in arrayed in finely wrought garments and robes that were blue emblazoned with many hued stars and gems. He looked stern and angry as his eyes fell upon his son, reclining before him, he was about to speak when his eyes went to the visitors. Immediately upon recognizing the older man, who now stood tall and noble, the King gave shout of joy and with a brimming smile upon his lips he exclaimed,

"Narmacil is it truly you?"

The older man embraced the king as old friends do and for a brief moment they forgot about the world around them. The king felt young again, as he had never before felt in all his years of ruling in Osgiliath; the warmth of his former captain's body against his own melted the aged cold heart he had kept in him all those long years and for that simple moment he was Ciryaher again. For Narmacil the many long years of separation from his kinsmen broke upon him as a river does to a bulwark in the sea. Prince Alcarin stood at this and wore an inquisitive look upon his brow, while the other youth shrank back into whatever shadows were lengthening at that hour. When the two men disengaged Hyarmendacil grasped his old friend by the arms and seeing his son in the corner of his eye he said,

"Alcarin…forgive me, this is Narmacil, a very dear old friend of mine from the war; many long years have passed since I saw him last…It is because of my love and respect for him that I chose to name my second grandson with his name…Speaking of which where are my grandsons?"

"They are out in the stables father, they wished to go riding this day and have only just returned."

"Well by all means bring them here…it is not often that a friend from their grandfather's war years comes to meet them."

At this the prince left the room; sighing Hyarmendacil sat upon the couch and bid Narmacil to sit as well, his attention not yet drawn to the youth standing only a few feet away. Hyarmendacil took the full goblet which the youth had refused and leaned into Narmacil so that they might speak better,

"How is your wife Athalanta, was it?"

"Yes that was her name…I am afraid she has passed on from this world."

"I am sorry to hear that…"

"She led a long full life, and she gave me three beautiful daughters, two strong and healthy sons and some of the happiest years of my life. My youngest is not yet 10, yet she is fiery, just like her mother."

"That is wonderful to hear…Though now that you are widowed you should return here to your people. Osgiliath is a fine place to raise children, and I will ensure that they be treated as the children of a great lord, for such a title is mine to give to so loyal a friend and captain."

Narmacil shook his head simply and said,

"Nay my lord…such time for me to return hither has long since passed. I am Hamadjon through and through now; my eldest daughter now rules in her mother's stead and she still has a fondness for her devoted father. Though in truth my heart still beats with the blood of Numenor…it is for this reason that I have been chosen to come to you."

"Oh? I thought it was wishful thinking that you came only to visit with an old friend."

Narmacil stood at this and paced the room, when he at last decided to speak he turned to face the King and in a low yet firm voice he said,

"I am come from the Goddess of the People, the Queen of the East, Ashthera the Beloved to beseech an audience with Ciryaher Hyarmendacil, King of Gondor."

Hyarmendacil smiled at the formality of Narmacil's actions and said softly,

"You have it of course…"

"A concern grows upon her heart and the very heart of the Council of the Seven Nations… Traders and merchants from Gondor have come accusing the Queen and the council of misdeeds and thievery, the very notion of which is absolutely false. They claim that your friends and allies in Khavul have hired pirates and I have been sent to assure you that this is a blatant lie and burns in the heart of your allies to make this falsehood plain."

"I tell you Narmacil, I have heard nothing of this sort. Indeed pirates and thieves have waylaid our transports and many merchants have lost their goods and some have lost their lives, yet no blame have I ever laid upon Khavul…you know I would not do such a thing."

"I know…yet such accusations by the merchant guilds have caused great anger in the Council and the Queen fears that Gondor will withdraw her support and treaty if such accusations are allowed to endure."

"What would she desire that the crown of Gondor do? My troops are no longer watching the old Harad road and as for Khand that is beyond the scope of our treaty…as you very well know the reasons why I had to withdraw my soldiers from their duties there."

"Of course…What is done is done…The queen only asks that some inquisition be made, for our sources tell us, rather, that these thieves and brigands come not from Harad or Khand or even the lands of the Ayab-Mamuk. No, they have been seen by many to come from and return to the lands of Umbar."

The king now stood at this,

"This is no light charge that you lay upon my neck Narmacil…indeed if you were any other man I would be greatly angered by the accusation that any one of Gondorian blood would stoop to such a level as thievery and piracy."

Narmacil sighed and placed his hands behind his back. Looking intently at the king he nodded,

"Of course, I do not expect you to believe me off hand…it is a grave charge, yet I have brought you one who has tracked the thieves for many miles and himself saw the place, to which they escaped and were given quarter."

With a soft gesture Narmacil motioned to his young companion, who at first hesitated in the shadows and then at last stepped out into the light of dusk. His sable hair and fair features made him look as one of the elven-kind, for indeed that was some of his parentage as the old tales said,

"King Ciryaher Hyarmendacil, I give you Cedladl Uialasse, son of Anatse Xidladlique of the Utashtegu; captain of the rangers and scouts of the Utashtegu."

When the king looked upon the youth, his face turned pale as parchment. His lips trembled and for a brief moment he had to look away from the boy for fear that even looking upon him would reduce the king to tears. Narmacil motioned with his eyes for the youth to speak, and he did with a soft and halting voice, almost afraid to be uttered,

"Fa…My lord, what Lord Narmacil says is true. I have seen it with my own eyes. On midsummer's eve of the past year, ere I set out on this journey, I tracked a band of pirates who had waylaid a caravan of spice traders heading toward the elbow of the Harad road, where the lands of the Seven Nations ends and the lands of Gondor begins. I and my comrades tracked them for several days, pursuing them to no end…for you see my lord they attacked a caravan escorting the Queen's handmaiden, who was on an errand to the Chieftain of the Ayab-Mamuk and she was…she was raped mercilessly, though she fought valiantly to defend herself, even at the cost of her own life. We pursued them eagerly and followed them even into your lands…I now ask forgiveness for riding into Gondor unbidden…"

At this the youth stopped and bent to one knee before the king, who looked at him and smiled weakly allowing his defenses to slacken; yet taking control of himself he said, haltingly,

"I understand your zeal, Master Cedladl…continue…"

At this the youth began again,

"We caught up with them after many miles and leagues crossed; as they sat for supper we ambushed them. They fought greatly and took from me my dearest childhood friend, yet they were not victorious. Some who ran at the sight of their defeat we chased to the borders of the City of Umbar and there were we stopped by your soldiers, who, mistaking us for cruel Harad, chased us back to our own lands. Yet from those that we killed we took pieces of their garb and have brought you some of it."

With that he took from a satchel, which hung about his left shoulder, medallions and weaponry. As he lay them before the king his hands trembled for his childish longing urged him to embrace the man he once called father until he was the age of 8 years…a man he never thought he would see again, a man he both loved and hated. At this Narmacil put his firm strong hand on the boy's shoulder and bade him to sit, he continued,

"As you can see my lord, this gear, though not standard Gondorian issue, bears the markings of Umbar and has some heraldry from Numenor, unless my eyes and age deceive me. I would think them nothing but forgeries or else stolen save for my young friend's story that he saw their owners enter the very city of Umbar. A dark conspiracy exists in that land my lord and my lady the queen bids you to seek out these perpetrators who have attacked not only merchants from our lands but those from Gondor as well."

When they had finished Hyarmendacil sat silently for a long time; his eyes fell intently upon the youth sitting across from him and they looked at each other fiercely and tenderly at the same time. Finally Hyarmendacil said,

"Your mother is Anatse?"

"Yes my lord…she is."

"And… and your father?"

"Gone my lord…I knew him to be of Gondorian heritage that is why my name is Uialasse in the tongue of my father's people. Yet when I was a child, not yet 8 years old, he left my mother and I have not seen him for a long time until…I…I was raised by my mother's kin in the red mountains since the time I was 10."

Hyarmendacil stood up as did Cedladl, they looked at each other in the eyes for a long time and finally Hyarmendacil turned to Narmacil and said,

"I will take the Queen's request under advisement, while I conduct my own investigation into these acts of piracy…Now if you excuse me I have not eaten all day and must break my fast with my family…alone. Beleg shall show you to your quarters and food and provision shall be given to you for your journey back tomorrow."

With that the King turned away taking the medallions and artifacts that were laid out upon the table. Narmacil and Cedladl stood silent in the atrium of the King's palace and, as though a great weight was lifted from his chest the youth sat down and sighed,

"Well it is over…I thought I would lose all composure once I saw him; I thought I would cry or tremble or lash out at him, yet I survived and am no worse save for a slightly stricken heart."

"What do you mean it is over Cedladl? He still refuses to recognize you as his son!"

"Perhaps he forgot about me."

"Impossible! Do not be so naïve my boy! I could see it in his very eyes the moment you revealed yourself to him that he recognized you."

"Yet why did he remain so formal, so kind and compassionate? It would have been easier if he had gotten angry, at least then I could hate him for some real reason and not the fantasy I remember from my youth!"

"Leaving you and your mother was not enough reason to be angry with him? I know your mother wishes you not to hate your father, for whatever reasons they are her own. Yet when I was a youth I was taught values that a man ought to recognize the child he makes and not treat him like forgotten chattel."

With that Narmacil strode off in the direction the king left in; Cedladl lay his head in his hands and for the first time since he was a child, allowed himself to cry. Mina watched all these things unfold from behind a column and her heart was deeply moved toward compassion for the youth. She silently melted into the growing darkness and returned to her duties. Hyarmendacil was found in his study, pouring over the insignia inscribed upon the regalia, which was worn by the pirates; there Narmacil called his name and walked up to him,

"That is it? That is all you have to say to the boy after all these years?"

"I am not in the mood for debate Narmacil…"

"He has come of age Ciryaher…or did you forget that? According to Gondorian law he is a full citizen of this land and is entitled to be treated as such, and that includes recognition by his father in the forum!"

"I wished for him to be raised in Gondor as well when I came back to Osgiliath! Yet that contemptible shrew took him away from me…Were it not for her he would have been raised as a prince and given all that he ever would need. Do not expect me, after 9 years to just simply ignore the life I have built for myself and acknowledge his existence…by all intents he is a citizen of Khavul and that is how I shall treat him."

"How can you be so cold Ciryaher?"

"Because I must be! A king must be cold and calculating if ever he is to survive and make good for his people, above all else. Do you think I am blind to Anatse's cunning? By recognizing Uialasse as my son in the public forum I give him all rights that a prince of Gondor ought to have, and that includes a right to wear my crown…And I am certain Anatse will ensure that I acknowledge that my marriage to her came first and that by all rights her son is first heir to _my_ kingdom…So forgive me if I sound cold but I must ensure the survival of my reign and acknowledging the half-blood son of an Eastern woman as my heir would rend this kingdom in two and cause all to fall into chaos."

Narmacil stared at the King and for a brief time they battled each other with their eyes, finally Narmacil sighed and said,

"You have grown since last I saw you Ciryaher…the King I remembered…the king I loved once, ruled from his heart. Yes he was impetuous and cocky, yet he was also kind and compassionate…that king would never have called the love of his life a shrew and his son a half-blood bastard. Anatse may be cunning my lord, but taking over your kingdom is farther from her heart…She desires peace and perhaps a place for her son to belong and do some good in the world."

Narmacil turned to leave, yet as he reached the door he turned back to face the King.

"Cedladl is come of age in the Eastern lands too…he is beloved and listened to by many in the east; he does not need a kingdom to rule, for he will command nations when he comes into his own and proves himself, this much is certain. Anatse did not want him to come…he came because he wanted to see you, because he needed his father."

At this the old man left and was never seen in Gondor again.


	8. The Shipwright's Land

The mists rolled over the hills to the north and south as it slowly climbed and flowed from the shores of the sea up the steep cliffs and rolling shrubbery of Mithlond until it reached the Hall of Cirdan. The two lighthouses in the distance glowed like distant stars floating above the horizon for the high cliffs upon which they stood were hidden by the dense fog. All was still that night and only the constant flowing of the tide could be heard as well as the tingling of bells that were tied to the harbor's piers which let sailors know, even in the densest fog where their homes lay. Yet the Hall of Cirdan was the one sight that could not be hidden by fog and even in the darkest and most tumultuous of storms captains could see its bright lamp. The Hall was shaped like the prow of a ship and it stood firm over the sea of mist as the great lantern upon it guided ships into the Haven of the Shipwright.

The hall was alabaster white and stood upon a great hill of rock that jutted out into the midst of the harbor cutting it in half, yet great it was in size and majesty. The lights of the hall glimmered amber through the high arched windows and banners hung at each corner of the hall bearing upon it the seal of Cirdan- a ship beneath a spray of stars. The prow looked out into the West and contained Cirdan's personal dwelling and opened into a triangular terraced patio garden where an ancient cypress tree flourished and whose roots broke into the clay stone tile and even entered into the Shipwright's study which opened out into the patio. Beneath the lowest eaves of the bent and gnarled cypress stood a statue of an elf gazing out into the West, a flute in his hand and a cresent shaped scar upon his right cheek. The marble was pale yet lifelike and one could have sworn that he would stand at any moment and begin to play upon his flute a sad and melancholy song, for the expression of his face was that of longing. And at that moment, as the moon shimmered its silver rays through the mists onto the white hall of Cirdan, the Shipwright looked upon it with cautious wonder, his memory floating to different times and different places,

He remembered a time when the tree he now looked at was but a sapling brought from the cliff forests of Harlond as gift by one of the Teleri tribal lords. Such cypresses grew upon the steep and often vertical cliffs near the coast, alone and stalwart never falling and living for many long years. Celebrin thought that such a lonely and stubborn tree should have a splendid place to call home for he deemed it the most forgotten and yet strongest of trees. So he designed the Hall that would become Cirdan's home after the breaking of Beleriand; he drew its peaked prow and the long eye shaped hall within that drew everyone's attention to the high seat, upon which Cirdan sat. With his own hands he tended the garden and planted the tree where it now stood, looking out to sea as the lord of the new haven. Now the tree was old, yet it flourished in the long years, surviving an age of the world and more; and unlike other trees which grew tall and wide with age, this one grew gnarled and stayed roughly the same height, yet its roots went deep and wrapped themselves around rocks, firmly anchoring it to the rocks below. It was this tree that Celebrin would sit under night after night and play his father's flute, old songs he half remembered from Doriath, some happy but others mostly sorrowful or longing. And there Alphindil would sit in the garden and play a happy tune upon his harp as Celebrin would dance while Cirdan watched, laughing and smiling in his study and then return to the tending of Mithlond. Those were happier times and now the garden was filled with less music, ghosts of the past and the tree, though stalwart, still grew more and more gnarled in its loneliness.

As Cirdan stood looking at the statue another's presence alerted him to the fact that he was no longer alone. Turning slowly to the right he saw the figure of a lordly elf standing before him; he wore the garb of a sailor and his hair was tightly braided behind his ears. Behind him stood a bent figure dressed in gray and leaning upon a gnarled staff; his white hair blowing in the wind like the moss that grows upon tall ancient trees in the southern forests of Harlindon. The elf, young in appearance yet ancient in his eyes spoke lightly bowing his head and touching his hand to his heart as a sign of respect,

"My lord you bid me bring you Mithrandir the Istar, when he arrived; we have offered him the hospitality of your home, yet he says he will not eat or drink till he has supped with you."

"Thank you Gildor…"

,said the Shipwright; at this the elf turned to leave and when he did so Cirdan placed his hand upon his shoulder and said,

"Please stay and eat with us my friend, for there is much that I must speak with you on…that is if your wife will permit it."

The elf smiled and said,

"Iminye has already eaten and is now asleep. Long ago she has learned to not wait for me on nights when the fog is so thick."

Cirdan's eyes moved to the old man standing before him, the bent figure hid a much deeper power than any could realize, yet Cirdan with his keen sight understood better than any other the flame that hid beneath the veil of this old man. And though his heart pained him a little to see the bringer of ill tidings of his foster son, the old man was a dear friend and he had great need of him at this time. He walked up to Mithrandir and grasped his arm in a sign of friendship,

"Long has it been Mithrandir since you graced my doorstep or accepted an invitation to dine with me in my hall…I hope it was not out of fear that you refused these summons all these years."

"No, my friend, I have not feared to return to this land though my heart greatly laments that I had to be the bearer of so great and sorrowful news to your house. I have been abroad much lately and only recently have my travels led me to your doorstep and this deep mist bid me take shelter in friendly lands."

Cirdan smiled at this,

"Surely you could have sought shelter in Annuminas just beyond the Emyn Beriad, or in Forlond where Cullofea desires more than I to pick your brain."

"I fear Cullofea's doorstep more than I fear yours, my friend, and the host of Annuminas's home is less friendly to me in these times than a cold barrow on a night such as is."

Cirdan laughed heartily,

"So I am the lesser of three evils, in that I am glad and more willing to offer you food and wine; come and warm yourself by the hearth…Gildor you as well, for I am warm beneath my robes yet you have been riding all throughout the lands doing my bidding and that is frigid work in this weather."

He led them to his study where a roaring fire provided great warmth and three chairs were set beside an ornate table, laid with fish and dried fruits and different types of bread. The three, for a short while, sat in silence as the crashing of the waves and the sound of the bells in the distance filled the air; such was the custom of Mithlond to sit for a moment and listen to the sound of the ocean before the beginning of a meal. They ate in silence as the lateness of the evening and the long fast was finally broken; finally Cirdan sat back and looked at both his guests,

"How does Galdor fair eh? Is he taking to his labors as he ought?"

Gildor smirked and said,

"He knows administration well enough and is quite adept at giving orders, though I fear he has not moved higher than an apprentice seaman…Many in his own class have already become ensigns aboard larger ships."

"That is disconcerting- keep at him, he must be able to at least light the fires on his own."

"He has followed my daughter several times up to the towers and knows how- he seems more likely, though, to convince students to do the work for him."

Mithrandir listened intently at this discussion; having only met Galdor once before, he refrained from saying anything. He knew the young elf to be wise and cunning and very adept at many things, hard labor of course not being one of them, yet he was amiable and carried with him an air of approachability, a limited world view being his only fault. The two other elves continued speaking about the young elf when Cirdan suddenly turned to the old wizard and said,

"Forgive me Mithrandir for cutting you out of the conversation, I did not intend to. Gildor and I have taken on the task of training Lord Cullofea's youngest nephew in the ways of the tower guard…among which is the training needed to light the towers and man the ships that go through the harbor. If he is to take on the title of Captain of the Guard he needs to be fully trained, perhaps there is a way you might suggest that will get him more involved within his lessons?"

"Surely he is not first in line to be Captain of the Guard? Gildor, would you not be a practical choice to take this position?"

Gildor looked sheepishly down at his plate; taking a piece of bread from the center he sighed and looked at Mithrandir in the eye,

"I would be…and it would indeed be an honor to serve my Lord Cirdan in that capacity. But I have put in my resignation and will live in Mithlond no longer... I have been given a great position in Imladris under the House of Elrond as one of his counselors."

Cirdan's eyes widened at this,

"I did not know you had desires to move away from Mithlond Gildor, I thought you had no desire to be Captain of the Guard for you ever spoke of others that would be more apt to replace you…I did not know you wished me to find your replacement."

"My wife and my people desire to be away from the sea and they have heard that Imladris has become a place of peace and rest, whereas here the old strifes still are placed upon their backs. The House of Inglorion only desires to be free and to live free; Cullofea's campaigns have placed us in a harsh bind my lord, we do not wish to adopt his new republic of Noldor in Forlond and yet Harlond is closed to us by virtue of association…Mithlond I think is the one place we can be free, yet many in my House do not agree with me…they think in Imladris, under the house of Elrond we may find a way to prosper."

Cirdan's brow furrowed and he wore a look of worry upon his face, sighing he said,

"I cannot fault you for your feelings my friend, though I wished you could have told me of them sooner. Elrond could find no better counselor than the one I give him now…Leave Galdor to me; perhaps there is still some seaward ways in this old elf's bones to train him yet."

"No my lord I would not allow that…I shall finish training the youth and then make my intentions known. Cullofea desires to place Galdor close to you to see if he can exert some influence upon you through him; he is charming and likeable and no doubt he will try to worm his way into your confidence."

At this Cirdan laughed and stood drinking a small bit of wine to wet his lips,

"You make me sound old and feeble Gildor, I know what Cullofea desires and I have already checked it well enough."

"I do not doubt that my lord, yet he has nearly trapped you a few times already and I fear by letting this Galdor into your home he may find a final way to get what he wants. Rule of both Mithlond and Harlond…I have seen him do this before, it is how he took control of Forlond."

Mithrandir got up from his seat and slowly meandered about the study as the two elves debated and talked; politics was not what he desired to become involved in, his work was finer, subtler, finding out the secrets of the world around him, of the mysterious desires in men and elves and dwarves. He walked to the balcony and stood looking at the statue of Celebrin that stood there, beneath the eaves of the cypress tree. His mind wandered to the last encounter with the elf, how much older and hale he looked compared to others of his kind; it was as he was pondering these things that he heard the footsteps of Cirdan coming up behind him.

"It is a stunning recreation is it not?"

, he said referring to the statue's almost lifelike appearance. He seemed saddened to look upon it, both saddened and yet grateful, as though the statue was the closest he would get to having his fosterling back home. Mithrandir's brow furrowed as he noticed this change in the ancient sea-elf, knowing that he was the cause of it, at least tangentially. He wanted to tell Cirdan the truth, yet he wondered which would hurt more, the belief that Celebrin was dead or the truth that he was alive but chose never to return to the world he was born to, that he chose a mortal life even though it was not a life he was given. Mithrandir nodded in response to Cirdan's question and said,

"It is I have not seen such craftsmanship in many years…"

" An old contemporary of Glorfindel created it, she lives in Forlond and marble is her servant; I have had her make several statues and this she made for me when I returned with news that Celebrin was… She was fond of him, as were most in Mithlond."

"Has word then spread to the rest of the city?"

"I have not had the heart to tell anyone; Findunen learned of his death through Glorfindel and I bade her to keep the secret a little while longer."

Mithrandir watched as Cirdan took one last look upon the statue then turned to the pinnacle of the balcony that formed the prow of the hall, which looked out into the long haven shrouded in mist and fog. The mists were so thick and dense that billowing curls and strands hung heavy in the cool air like moss upon a willow tree and one could barely see the dim light of the towers beyond, at the edge of the havens. They were dim stars in the distance and often would blink as the fog distorted their clear flames. Cirdan's eyes peered into the darkness and he spoke in a low voice,

"Darkness now envelops the world Mithrandir; this fog is but a first moment of it…I have seen and felt it before, when Brithombar and Eglarest were attacked in Beleriand long ago. It is the first chill of a growing darkness and fell weather that I have discerned for a long time now…"

"You have spoken with Thranduil?"

Cirdan nodded and turned to face the old Wizard, his eyes were filled with starlight now, though the sky was veiled and if he had looked closer he would have seen images of flame and destruction rather than the faint glimmer of starlight within them. For the eyes of Cirdan see farthest than all in Middle Earth and within his gaze he beheld past, present and future as they played through his mind.

"Yet the darkness Thranduil sees is but the barest traces of a greater darkness that envelops the northern lands. Orcs and trolls have been seen scattered and leaderless in the frozen north and other fell creatures are drawn there. This mist has been pushed southward from its havens in the frosted mountains, sent to hide and obscure the comings and goings of the dark things of this world. It is not yet come, but it shall fall upon us soon…"

Then a quick shudder went through the body of the elf and he felt a cold chill creep down his spine and exit his fingers. His gaze then fell upon the statue of Celebrin and for a brief moment in the haze of his clouded vision he thought he saw him standing before him, though he looked wrinkled and hale like an old man. With a blink of his eyes his vision no longer saw beyond time and space and he merely saw Mithrandir standing before him. The old wizard looked concerned as he leaned upon his staff,

"How long do we have?"

Shielding his eyes from the absence of vision, Cirdan looked back out to sea,

"I do not know…perhaps…perhaps a council should be called, to see what others may be able to report. The victory in the east may have only been a feint."

"Do you think it is…him again?"

"The dark lord of the East was Khamul that I have no doubt of…this one may very well be another of his brethren left behind after the fall of their master. In my heart I hope it is; the world is too scarred and too shaken still to withstand another war to end all wars."

Mithrandir placed the cup of wine upon the balcony,

"Galadriel should be notified of what you have seen…no doubt she too has seen the signs and symbols of the coming darkness. Look to my coming in soon time."

Cirdan nodded absentmindedly as the old wizard turned to leave, yet suddenly the wizard found the elf stopping him,

"There is no need to leave now; you are travel worn and the weather is too cold to allow you out on this night. It will be a long time till the darkness covers us all and I would like to speak of more friendly matters in the morning, when the light is in the sky."

Mithrandir gently placed his hand upon the ancient elf's shoulder and felt it ease as he sighed in relief; the two old friends looked upon one another in true happiness, which was becoming rarer in those days. The old wizard felt a great twinge upon his heart to reveal the truth to Cirdan- in truth he had hoped the Shipwright's vision was far enough to know that Celebrin yet lived in the East. Perhaps Cirdan wished with his heart that Celebrin's turmoil had ended and that now he lived in whatever peace was the destiny of the elves, where his parents now lived. Perhaps it was easier for Cirdan to mourn the elf he held dear as his own son, than to know he would never return of his own volition. Mithrandir felt that same tug to reveal what he had kept hidden in his heart and as he opened his mouth to speak a slight cough broke the tender silence.

Standing upon the balcony was a young elf, tall though wiry in frame. His dark hair was tinged with small wisps of red and tied in the manner of the Noldor, with small braided tendrils framing his leaf-point ears and a regally knotted pony tail. He wore evening attire as though he was ready for bed, yet this was made of fine elvish silk that shimmered in the firelight of the lantern above the Hall. It was a bold red-golden color that reflected light like burnished bronze. His hands he held behind his back, which was erect and he looked at ease in the setting, as though he belonged where he stood. His face was fair and flawless in the manner of elves; yet his lips were crooked and one side of the lower lip drooped a bit further than the other side- the sign of an old childhood injury. His bright hazel eyes burned intensely with eagerness and passionate zeal- a family trait no doubt. Cirdan noticed the arrival of the youth,

"Ah Galdor, thank you for answering my summons, no doubt I caught you before you went to bed…"

"Not at all my lord, I was merely in my study when Gildor arrived saying you requested an audience with me."

Galdor said, his voice was high and noble and yet at the same time sincere; he smiled as though he knew no care in the word and had yet to see the evils that life can contain. Cirdan turned to the gray wizard and said,

"Mithrandir please allow Gildor to escort you to my guest room, we shall discuss more of this tomorrow."

With the slight bow of his head the old wizard walked away, his gnarled staff marking each step with a definate thump against the gray stone floor. His eyes intently watched Galdor as he made his way to the exit, where Gildor stood bearing an amber lantern; they left the room and Gildor shut the door behind him. The Shipwright and the young elf stood in silence for a little while, the sound of the waves surrounding them. Cirdan as the eldest held the right to initiate conversation and used some time to observe the youth. Galdor looked at him in an imperious manner and did not flinch when Cirdan beheld him in his eyes, which was either the sign of great skill and wisdom or great foolishness and hubris, perhaps some of each. Cirdan motioned for the youth to come stand beside him on the mist strewn porch,

"How are you finding your work in the Tower Guard, Galdor?"

"It is difficult but not impossible…may I be honest with you my lord?"

Cirdan nodded his ascent,

"I understand the need to train upon ships and to do rudimentary chores and tasks about the lighting of the towers…for Moriquendi perhaps these tasks are better suited, since they have often lived hard and arduous lives. Yet…I wonder if my talents are being wasted in the day-to-day drudgery."

"Modesty becomes you young Galdor!", Cirdan said jokingly, "…all members of the Tower Guard have had to go through such tasks to orient themselves with the comings as goings of the guild…Calaquendi and Moriquendi alike."

"This I understand and I am more than willing to do my fair share of hard labor…yet I have noticed that some of the organization of the Tower Guard is somewhat…well lax."

"How do you see that?"

"Well…meaning no disrespect to your late foster son, or to Inglorion, but the members of the guild seem to recognize no authority, they move about without any direction or orders, performing their chores and duties and seem to take no direction from anyone!"

"And this is an evil thing?"

"It is not efficient! A guild requires a master, an organizer…one who can insure that everyone is working according to plan…someone whom the others might look to for guidance and a firm hand in case of emergency."

Cirdan wore a bemused look upon his face and leaned upon the balcony, intently listening to the youth; uncrossing his arms he placed them behind his back,

"And do you perhaps have one in mind…someone who can make the Tower Guard more efficient at the duties they already perform admirably well at?"

"Well I do…I was wondering if you would but permit me a small bit of authority to develop a more efficient system…on a trial basis of course. If the members of the guild do not like it, or if it proves to be more of a hassle than before, then I would be glad to curb my objections and allow the system to run as is…even in its loose structure."

Cirdan nodded and turned away from the youth looking out at the mist covered havens before him. Fog covered the entire haven and the tower lights could barely be seen, shimmering like two distant stars on the horizon. Cirdan sang softely,

_Where is my love, who sings of me_

_Light the fires and kindle the embers, my love_

_For tonight I come back to thee,_

_From long travels 'neath the stars above_

_To home, to home, which I built with my own hands and sweat_

_To home, to home whose lintel I raised in winter's wet._

_Ever shall I yearn to see the lights of mine own dwelling_

_To the end of my journeys and my love's tender smiling._

"Have you ever heard that song Galdor?"

, said Cirdan, his voice trailing off now as the slight sound of a horn came from the sea.

"I have not my lord, it does sound beautiful…about my request…"

"Celebrin wrote it…he wrote it for a young sailor, a member of the Tower Guard, not much older than you are to sing to his wife; you see she was angry that he would spend weeks out upon the sea. In those days sailors would travel all the way to Numenor or along the coasts and be gone for several days; she was unfortunately of the woodland kin and not used to living by the sea…So Celebrin made up a small tune in her native tongue, something loving and longing, something for the youth to sing to her as he made his way home…that way she knew when he was arriving and how terribly he missed her and their home."

Galdor seemed confused by this and wondered silently to himself if the elf had heard anything he had said, he was about to speak when Cirdan turned to face him, his bright blue eyes looking deep within him,

"That youth died in the battle for Eregion…I went myself to the young man's home and consoled the wife…She was young and nothing more than a simple fisherman's wife. She tended their hearth and thought nothing of the orders of 'high' elves…to her, the most beautiful moment of her life was hearing that song in the night. After that she would not speak to anyone, save me when I would visit her from time to time and she would have succumbed to grief…Until one day, when Celebrin visited Mithlond after the completion of the war, he visited her and sang to her that song and they wept for the loss of that young elf. She came back to life after that…do you see?"

"I have no doubt your foster son was well loved my lord…"

"He was well loved, but that is not the point of the story… The point is he knew every elf in Mithlond, Forlond and Harlond and everywhere in between. He kept them company in their times of sorrow, he grew angry with them when they felt as though injustice had been done to them…He was not perfect, some of the Tower Guard even hated the amount of work he expected them to accomplish, yet they hated more his disappointment. He trained and came to know each and every one of them. And they in turn came to know him…he built the Tower Guard from nothing; he and Gildor both poured their sweat and tears and blood into this land. I poured all of myself into this land and into ensuring the safety and protection of my people."

Cirdan now began to stand tall and the mist around him seemed to be lit by slow, silver light.

"I have no doubt that you are cunning Galdor, yes cunning and charming and these traits perhaps helped you earn favor in your uncle's court and in Forlond…Yet I warn you it will take more than cunning and charm to run the Tower Guard or to even make them listen to you. They are not courtiers, Galdor, that prize the fanciful word and flourished quip even less than seagull droppings…they prize action and deeds not a show of power or authority handed from above. It will take more than charm and a silver tongue to rule this city…Each stone, each league of this city and this harbor is infused with the will, compassion and blood of two elves, young Galdor. Only these two could have bent the city to his will…one is gone forever…and the other stands before you."

Galdor was in awe at the authority and determination shown in the formerly kindly elf's eyes; now he stood like an ancient warrior, a king even. Galdor tried to say something in his defense, something to defend his own pride and desires, but he could not. He finally said,

"And what is to happen if you cannot guide this city? Shall it fail?"

"That is a question that I have asked myself for many years…"

"Surely one can be groomed to know the city…to bend it to their will as you do?"

At this Cirdan laughed; it sounded both musical and terrible, like great bells that rang in towers ,

"You think it is so easy as that? Behold!"

Suddenly Galdor's eyes were filled with a terrible sight; the sight of an elf lord, born before the sun and moon took flight, in his full majesty and aura. He grew tall and his robes seemed filled with an invisible wind; his gleaming white hair shone out like a brilliant star in the void of the night. He turned to the fogged-in sea and closed his shining eyes, his face serene as a calm ocean. He stretched his arms out to the sky, his palms holding back an invisible tide; the Shipwright took in a deep breath and as he slowly released his breath he lowered his arms. At first nothing happened and Galdor thought it all an illusion, yet suddenly he gasped in fear, for the fog that so densely surround them seemed to rend itself in two as a great wind came from behind them, flowing from the mountains to the sea.

The mists separated and retreated, rolling in great smoky waves they flew with slow and determined speed up the cliffs and hills of the northern and southern shores. The lights of the towers, which were once dim stars upon the horizon seemed to shine brilliantly in the clear night sky and between them Earendil rose from the sea a pinnacle of light in all-enveloping darkness. Galdor then saw a ship stalled upon the outside of the haven and clearly its horn could be heard; it was a Gondorian ship calling for safe haven in the harbor and as the fog dispersed it began its approach into the harbor of Cirdan the Shipwright. The wind ceased and Galdor who had been seeing the whole marvel transpire found himself without breath, his eyes wide in disbelief. Slowly he turned to Cirdan who calmly stood beside him, his eyes firmly fixed upon the Gondorian tradeship, yet his mind elsewhere.

"How?"

, said Galdor after a long time of silence.

"I built this harbor and haven with my bare hands…I was present at the foundations of my own hall, of the timbers that line the harbor, of the laying of the foundations for King Gil-galad's palace and the council chambers of Harlond. I have known each elf that has lived, loved and worked upon these shores. I have rejoiced in their births and marriages and have mourned each one's passing. I have walked in each acre of wood and wild land between the Tower Hills and the cliffs that mark the end of this land. I am the Shipwright, not by circumstance or kin…I am Shipwright by blood and sweat and tears, it is only for this reason that the land responds to me so…why it listens to me…Will it listen to you?"

Those cold blue eyes burned their way into Galdor's thoughts and they plagued his dreams as he went home to sleep, still in awe by what he had seen. He had always been told that Cirdan was weak or that we was ineffectual- always this came from his uncle – yet the Shipwright was not weak…not in the least.

When Galdor had left Cirdan walked to the place where Celebrin's statue stood; he placed his hand upon the smooth face and ran the tips of his fingers upon the curvature of the sickle shaped scar upon its marble face and then he wept as the thin wisps of mists began again to descend upon the harbor.


	9. Lhiuwan the Exile

_I have used the lines to denote the passage of time, generally within months of each other. _

* * *

The rains had ceased by the time Celebrin returned home and the young man, Lhiuwan, seemed to have recovered nicely in the time Celebrin spent obtaining the herbs. Celebrin noticed that the store was somewhat more depleted and he had hoped that the rainy season had brought enough water so that his corn and vegetables grew and that the valley below would soon support life for hunting again. That day however was not yet necessary and Celebrin mixed the dried herbs to make the poultice in a large shallow sandstone bowl. Using a mortar and pestle he grinded the herbs into a fine aromatic mixture; he then proceeded to make a salve, one that was useful in healing burns that had become infected – this would allow the wounds to heal and make it easier to maneuver the hand and train it to move again. As Celebrin unwrapped the hands, Lhiuwan looked in the distance half-heartedly, as though he did not hold much hope for the poultice. The cat played near the hearth, batting dying coals this way and that reveling in the sparks that flew and illuminated the dimly lit cave. Celebrin smiled at this and asked,

"How long have you known him?"

"Not very long…he was a ship cat at the port near where I lived; I protected him from the wild dogs that roamed near the port and he in turn hunted mice or other vermin…When I was shunned he followed me and has been my companion ever since, I do not know completely why."

"He likes you…you are his pet."

Lhiuwan laughed at this and then winced in pain as the wrappings were slowly removed, revealing freshly opened wounds where his gnarled hands once were. Celebrin looked pensively at them and murmured to himself,

"They should have healed a bit more than they have…it looks as though they have been re-burned…Did you touch the fire while I was gone?"

"No of course not! It is the curse…the wounds are never to heal…It is pointless."

"Perhaps not…I have seen this poultice work on several miraculous occasions, by less skilled hands than mine…It will not be easy work, and it will be painful."

Lhiuwan nodded that he understood what was being said; gingerly Celebrin applied the poultice to the wounds which Lhiuwan found aggravatingly painful, but the light foam that formed on his hand soon had a cooling effect and once the clean bandages were applied he felt little to no pain in his hands. As Celebrin washed the dirty rags and boiled them by the hearth Lhiuwan marveled at how little his hands hurt,

"You have excellent leech-craft Master Hermit…Had I known the Ute-Ashtegu were such skilled healers I would have journeyed westward sooner."

"This is not skill I had learned from the Ute…though the herbs they have worked with for many centuries…The poultice is a far older recipe, one from a time before the Ute were a people…before the shadow covered the land…"

Celebrin's memory recalled his training at the hands of the Laiquendi, the Green Elves of Ossiriand who migrated to the different regions of Eriador in the elder days when forest land covered all the wild regions west of the Misty Mountains. He remembered using that same poultice to heal Alphindil's wounds after the battle of Orodruin, when Sauron fell and the second age ended. Alphindil's wounds healed only superficially and a far deeper infection had set in them, which ultimately prevented him from being able to move his hand and leg again. The stray thought of his companion caused the elf to tear up and he wiped the small drop of salty tear from his cheek; Lhiuwan meanwhile stroked the cat, which had come and sat in his lap. Lhiuwan was healing from his fall rather quickly and his legs began to work as legs should; his voice was still raspy, though Celebrin could hear that it had once been beautiful. The youth and Celebrin talked about other matters such as the seasons or the growing of plants or the lands that faced the other sea.

* * *

As the weeks passed the young man was able to stand and walk again and despite the gnarled form of his hands he was able to perform some small tasks remarkably well, such as rolling rope made of yucca fibers or washing the cloths used to make his bandages. Every few days Celebrin would tend to the wound and add a new dose of the poultice; this particular mixture prevented disease from setting in and caused Lhiuwan's pain to numb so that he could function somewhat normally. Yet each time Celebrin removed the bandages the wounds seemed fresh as though they were newly burned; perhaps, Celebrin thought, that this was indeed a form of what mortals called magic…perhaps it was caused by something made by the Dark One long ago. Celebrin shook the thought from his mind and tried a new set of herbs to add to the poultice, slowly working his way through what could be causing the wounds to prevent their healing.

At night, while the young man slept, Celebrin sang songs of healing under the stars, songs taught to him by the Laiquendi and those once sung by his mother who was their kin. These songs told of unraveling the mysteries of the body and of the different medicinal herbs and minerals used for the treatment of burns. Yet still nothing worked; meanwhile, Lhiuwan began to recuperate and even joined Celebrin on foraging expeditions. The elf noticed how fleet of foot the young man was, and he smiled as he realized that the young man, though tortured, was good at heart, for he never took more than his share and made up for it in little ways. His face was still badly scarred and his throat never fully healed, remaining raspy and low the entire time. Sometimes Celebrin heard him humming to himself and growing frustrated at the fact that he could not hit a certain key or note without having to cough or clear his throat…

"Do you know any songs Master Hermit?"

Lhiuwan said to him one hot summer night as they ate their meal in the open air; the cat curled up beside the fire and Durandir neighed wildly in the distance, freely roaming the newly sprouted plains on the plateau.

"I know some old Ute songs and some from the Hamadjon…but I have not sung in a long time, I doubt I remember how."

Lhiuwan smirked at this and said sardonically,

"Surely you are not so old as to have forgotten, you look not much older than me…and your voice is still fair."

At this flattery Celebrin laughed and shook his head, patting Lhiuwan gingerly upon his knee, as one would do with a child,

"I am older than I look young one… and you could hardly know the words that I would sing to you."

"But that does not mean you cannot sing. Please…it has been many long years since I heard a fair voice sing…I need not understand the words just the tune and melody shall be food enough for me."

Celebrin raised one eyebrow, surely he thought to himself that a simple dock worker did not think of music as being food…only courtiers and princes could come up with such flowery language and think of music as food for the soul. Celebrin sighed and nodded his head,

"Very well Lhiuwan…I shall sing a small song…one that another taught me long ago."

Celebrin closed his eyes and began to hum a slight tune, an ancient one that the old medicine woman Jzathi-ma-ala taught to him when he first arrived. He sang of the foundation of the world, not the old tale he was taught as a child in the fastness of Doriath but another sung by ancient medicine women and men to the people of the Ute-Ashtegu even before they were Ute.

He sang of the beginning of the world, where the sky was dark and the void enclosed the world around and of the earth that was covered by a great sea; to that great sea was born a turtle that grew so vast that her shell peaked over the torrents of the ocean. He sang of the sea's second daughter the moon who danced upon the surface of her sister the Turtle and whose dim light called forth an ancient powerful being, the Sun from the far places of the void, where he dwelt alone. He sang of how Moon and Sun felt love for one another and how they bedded one another; yet the Sun being so lonely, violently hurt the Moon and she fled from him as she bled. They forever circle the earth and very few times would Sun and Moon meet again and their passion would be their undoing. He sang of how the Moon's children, the stars rose up to the sky and followed their mother this way and that, protecting her from their father.

He sang then of the first stars, the Greater Kadjinai, who settled upon the back of the Great Mother Turtle, which had grown so large that the sea was separated in great pools upon its back. They sang to life the first trees and plants from the deep soils that were embedded in Turtle's back; they created a paradise beneath the winding path of the Sun and Moon. These Greater Kadjinai and their children the Lesser Kadjinai came to dwell in the dark places of the Earth, beneath the eaves of the trees for they hated their father the Sun, who burned them as he drew near. The Greater Kadjinai then sang from the stones the People, the Ute and the Ashtegu, the Hamadjon and the Ayab-Mamuk and many others besides, who began to cover the land and subdue it to their will, sometimes with great success but always at a cost. And though they were hard as stone they withered with the winds of time and their works never endured, whereas the Lesser Kadjinai endured; they flowed with time like a leaf caught up in a river's current, for they contained within them the last remnant of the stars that were born from Sun and Moon on Earth…

Celebrin had sung so long that his voice became hoarse and yet he did not grow weary; he opened his eyes and found Lhiuwan asleep by the dying embers. Sighing and smiling Celebrin covered the young man with his cloak and still felt empowered by the music he had conjured in his heart. He descended the sheer cliff face and went to where the canyon stream flew the strongest; he thought of the Kadjinai that dwelt in the mountains to the North and wondered if in the dim silence of the night they had heard his song. Celebrin undressed himself and pulled his hair behind his leaf-pointed ears, something he had not done in the entire time that Lhiuwan had been living with him. He stepped into the waist deep stream and allowed the cool water to penetrate every pore on his skin; he felt the world around him begin to slow and time itself seemed to have no meaning. It was just as he had felt when he stumbled upon the lands of the Kadjinai, when Cidhrali was taken from him, and when Liniel took his hand and brought him into an elvish world that had never forgotten the lives they lived before Doriath. And slowly, almost like a faint whisper in the flowing of the current Celebrin heard a voice,

_Come back to me, my child, my son… Long has your wandering taken you and far from your birthright…Immortal you were born and immortal you shall remain…Come back to me…Come to the Mother who never forgot the old ways…_

With a start Celebrin opened his eyes and seemed to see before him a pair of shimmering lights, caught in the reflection of the full moon. They were joined by others, perhaps four more, Celebrin could not tell for they hovered in one place and then quickly they went out and reappeared in another place. Celebrin first felt fear, for he felt vulnerable and alone,

"You wish to take vengeance upon me then do you? For your fallen comrades? Then do it…death has ever followed me and I have evaded it, but no longer."

Spreading his arms Celebrin revealed his firm muscular form in the moonlight, unabashed and fearless of dart of steel; the light shimmered upon his skin and his hair danced with the light of ancient stars, for a brief time he felt his heart beating loudly, filling him with the ancient blood of his people…of the elves, the Eldar, the people of the stars. A snap of a twig opened his eyes and the floating lights were gone; gone also was the enchantment that flowed over him at that moment and he returned to the fleeting world of men. Lhiuwan's cat purred and meowed from the banks of the stream, a dead fish lying beside it; Celebrin smiled weakly and returned to the bank of the river, dressed himself, picked up both cat and fish and all the time feeling, for the first time in many years, like an elf again.

* * *

The night of singing had done Lhiuwan well and the poultices began to work, for the burns upon Lhiuwan's hands finally began to heal, slowly growing skin, where before there was charred or freshly red tissue. The healing was more painful than the exposed skin, especially when Celebrin had to clean the bandages and rip some of the new skin to do it and Lhiuwan always grimaced as he did so, yet never did he grow angry and kept his pain masked. Yet slowly for several months Lhiuwan's red, wet, bloody hands grew new skin and the youth marveled at the occurrence, even to the point of tears. After several months, when winter's chill slowly faded to new spring, Celebrin removed the bandages for the last time, judging Lhiuwan's skin to be strong enough to endure the elements; as he did this Lhiuwan looked at his restored arms as though he were seeing them for the first time. Tears came to his eyes and though they were still gnarled and misshapen he embraced Celebrin, kissing him upon the cheeks.

"I almost forgot what my hands looked like! You are miraculous!"

"The war has not been won yet…The skin has returned but now we must work on the muscles, to see if you can still get some use out of your hands… with time and training."

Lhiuwan nodded and could not take his smile from his face, though in truth the pain was still present in his hands, despite the skin. His face was now healing better and despite the large scars written upon his face Celebrin noted that he had once been a fair youth, a prince even. Celebrin slowly began loosening his hand muscles by alternating between massaging them and slowly opening and closing the fingers. This caused Lhiuwan great pain and beads of sweat formed readily each time they began to try to reshape the young man's hands. Celebrin went out into the wilderness and gathered herbs and minerals to use to make a salve that would loosen tense muscles, yet the gathering went slowly for the winter had brought no rain and the chill and frost had sent many useful herbs to sleep. Almost 11 months had passed since Celebrin had first met Lhiuwan and the two had become on more friendly terms; Celebrin began to let his guard down, at least only a little, allowing Lhiuwan to know that he came from Khavul the shimmering amber city to the south. He told him his name, Cedlal, the name that Cidhrali had given him all those years ago and it made Lhiuwan happy to know it, yet at times he still called him Master Hermit in jest. Celebrin told him of the peoples he had encountered, the tall, frightening and joyous Ayab-Mamuk, the fearless, stern and loyal Hamadjon, the kind-hearted and underestimated Ute-Ashtegu and finally he spoke of the ambiguous Numenoreans. Lhiuwan seemed to become interested in his tales of the Numenoreans, and like any youth he leaned in and asked, tentatively,

"What are they like? These men from the sea?"

Celebrin thought it over for some time as he knead bread in a sandstone bowl, finally he spoke

"Some can be noble and honorable to a fault and each one of them bears himself as a king of old; they hold true to their values and are compassionate and wise…others much less so. I suppose like all men they have the capacity for good or evil…but because they believe themselves to be so much higher in blood than others of their kind their faults and prejudices become more manifest, more visible. They are…they are like children who have never learned how to grow up."

Lhiuwan chuckled at this;

"You speak about them as though you do not approve of them; I have heard fascinating tales of their cities, the great parapets and walls of stone, their ships are said to be larger than a palace yet glide smoothly upon the water as a water serpent. I have always wanted to meet one…"

Lhiuwan smiled and sighed wrapping his arms around his knees, like a child. Celebrin arched his eye brow and shook his head,

"I have seen many cities built of stone…and the only thing for a city built of stone left to do is for it to fall. I turn my eye to the things that endure…the wild places of the world, for even after the summer blaze sets in the grasses and all the world smolders in summer's flame the grasses and trees flower on, and the rain returns."

The two continued to talk about such matters as the night dragged on. Weeks would pass as Lhiuwan and Celebrin talked and slowly Lhiuwan began to obtain more control of his hands, at first his forefingers could bend and move on their own, yet with great effort and pain to the young man. But soon these became as moveable as they had once been, then slowly the other fingers began to move as though no disease or burn afflicted them. Lhiuwan would never fully be rid of the burning sensation beneath his skin and it would take a very long time for him to move his fingers one by one, independently. It would be another few weeks before his palm would begin to move and his thumb, yet Celebrin marked how quickly the young man began to recover and how dearly he relished the ability to move his hands again. With all the exercises and salves that Celebrin created, Lhiuwan no longer had misshapen hands that were gnarled by flame and torture. Aside from some redness and swelling they could move independently, though when the young man was at rest his hand would return to their former gnarled position, like a closed blossom at night time.

* * *

As the use of his arms and hands became better, Lhiuwan helped Celebrin plant and gather grain and vegetables in the terraced gardens that were built into the cliff's side. The two laughed and spoke of many things, yet ever did Lhiuwan wish to tell of his former sins to Celebrin, for often he would brood in dark thoughts and look at his hands saying things like,

"If you only knew what sins I have done and what salvation you have given me…"

Yet ever did he stop there and would embrace Celebrin in thanks. Celebrin humored the youth and as the strength returned to his hands Lhiuwan began accompanying Celebrin into the wilderness to hunt in Spring's new season of game. It was at one of these hunting trips that Lhiuwan asked Celebrin,

"Why do you not show me your face?"

"You have seen my face before young one…it has not changed since then."

Celebrin often kept the elvish shimmer of his eyes hidden by the shadow of the cowl and he did this also to cover the leaf point of his ears. He knew not why he did this, for Lhiuwan had endeared himself into the elf's heart and they trusted one another as dear friends in the short time they had been together. Perhaps he felt a sense of foreboding and danger from the young man, ever mindful of the warnings he was told by the old Khand merchant all that time ago. Yet the youth did not seem dangerous, in fact when he was not joyful of his healed hands he was often sullen and forlorn, especially when he was alone- a mood Celebrin was long used to. Then he thought to himself,

_Why do I hide myself from him? Surely he has earned my trust and confidence by now?_

Celebrin opened his mouth then suddenly he heard a twig breaking, nearby; his ears pricked up and he barely had time to move away when an arrow flew right past his head. A hissing sound came from the dark brush of the canyon wilderness and a figure darted away as a hooting call came out. Celebrin drew his bow and his heart began to beat faster; he barred his teeth like a wild animal and his eyes became keen, the Kadjinai had returned to attack him, he thought. Lhiuwan crouched beside him, the youth was unarmed save for a simple stone, which he threw at rabbits and his eyes grew wide in fear,

"They have come for me! They have come to enact their vengeance upon me!"

Like a mad man he ran into the brush, while Celebrin called after him; making a quick decision he ran after the youth as dark figures followed him their darts and arrows flying past him as he moved like a wind in the branches, barely touching the floor. Lhiuwan was fey and ran weeping and crying out in fear; he hardly noticed the arrow that flew towards him and struck his thigh and he tripped over himself, landing upon his face, his forehead striking the stony ground. When Celebrin reached him he stood over the unconscious youth, keeping Lhiuwan's body low to the ground, his bow drawn and at the ready, the elf shouted out into the wild canyon brush in the tongue of the Ute,

"Leave now! This is not your land!"

A dark figure approached,

"Who are you to say whose land this is not?"

Celebrin was taken aback by the tongue that came from the shadow; it was Alamb-Harad the tongue of the East. When the figure approached, he saw a dark skinned man wearing the hunting garb of the Skull clan, a tribe that had once been part of the Ute-Ashtegu but fled into the wilderness when they decided to help the Gondorians.

"I am the Hermit, and I have lived in this land for many years…This stream and this forest belong to the Ute-Ashtegu…as members of that tribe you have right to hunt here as much as I…but unless you have reduced yourselves to the eating of man-flesh then I must ask you to leave me and my friend be!"

"How do we know you are who you say you are stranger? The Hermit is a name long known among our people, he is a spirit they say that haunts these lands and who enacts vengeance on any who dare pretend to be him!"

With great force and will Celebrin removed his hood and revealed himself in his true light; his eyes blazoned forth and the point of his ears could clearly be shown as his hair shimmered now undimmed with the light of the ancient stars of Doriath; the man stepped back and shuddered his eyes at seeing an ancient elf revealed in the glory of the elder days.

"Forgive me ancient one… We have heard tales of you and that you lived in this wilderness, yet I did not believe them true…but he is one who bears the markings of an exile…it is better that we kill him now!"

"Approach him and you will surely die! Leave now and find another place in this valley to hunt!"

As if to make his stern command clearer an errant thunder clap filled the air and the other shadows that surrounded him seemed to shudder in fear. The other man nodded and seemed greatly frightened by what he saw; Lhiuwan, whose face was still looking upon the ground and who had barely come to his senses wept horridly and he would not get up until Celebrin knelt beside him and helped him to his feet. Celebrin re-hooded himself and draping the youth's arm over his shoulder helped him back to the cave. The rain began to fall suddenly as they neared the cave; taking the long sloping path that led up to the storage room the two entered the cave and Celebrin sat the youth gently near the hearth. Lhuiwan was still breathing heavily and crying, yet he tried to hide his face from Celebrin who began to undress and get into warmer clothes.

"You are safe now Lhiuwan…they will not come for you."

"I thought…oh I thought the demons would come for me when they saw that I was happy."

Furrowing his brow Celebrin knelt beside the youth and held his hand,

"No demons shall plague you, not while I draw breath… Come let me see the wound."

Celebrin took off Lhiuwan's trousers, rolling them slowly off so that they did not touch the thigh wound. The arrow had only sliced Lhiuwan yet the slice was deep and needed stitching. As he cleaned and stitched the wound shut, Lhiuwan took control of his emotions and began to calm down,

"Why did they run away from you? I thought that they would surely kill us both!"

"They were not demons, they were men… And men are easily frightened when they think they behold a spirit-being."

"Is that what you are?"

Chuckling Celebrin patted Lhiuwan on the knee and said,

"A hermit is a sacred person to them…I invoked that position and it was just by luck that the thunder came when it did."

Celebrin smiled reassuringly at Lhiuwan and as his eyes fell upon the youth he noticed that his hair had fallen in front of his face, yet behind his black tresses the elf could see blood.

"You hit your head, let me see the damage done"

Celebrin moved to brush the hair from the youth's face and as he pushed it behind the youth's ear he noticed something odd about the structure beneath the heavy straight folds of black hair. Instead of the gentle curve that was normal for humans he felt a definite point where the upper lobe should have been. The elf stopped for a moment as Lhiuwan froze in fear; thinking he was imagining things Celebrin pushed the hair back further and saw to his amazement something he had not expected. Lhiuwan's ear was as pointed as his own; the gentle leaf-tip point was clearly visible now in the light of the hearth. The two sat in silence for a small eternity and Celebrin stepped back, his brow furrowed in confusion,

"Ele…"

He said, shocked and astonished at finding another elf in the wilderness of the east, the fairness of his face and the light in his eyes now seemed clear to him, as though hidden in plain sight- before him sat one of the Eldar, of this much he was now sure. Lhiuwan looked at him with an equally shocked expression, his ageless eyes wide with fear and awe,

"What did you just say?"

,he said, his voice quivering with anticipation. Celebrin, his hands shaking, removed his cowl and pulled back his own raven black hair behind the leaf points of his ears. When Lhiuwan beheld the points of Celebrin's ears and the stars in his eyes, he sighed and said,

"Ele…indeed"

They sat in silence for a much longer time now taking stock of what had just happened; Lhiuwan was the first to stir and getting to his feet with much effort he walked over to where Celebrin stood, frozen in fear and joy. Lhiuwan gently raised his hand and touched the curve of Celebrin's earlobes and felt as they rose to the leaf point at the top, chuckling he quickly embraced Celebrin and shouted in Sindarin,

"I thought…I thought I was lost! I thought that I would never…ever… see another of my kin again! Ai Brother! Brother, I now name you, by the stars of Varda herself! Mae Govannen, well met beneath the stars!"

Lhiuwan laughed as he tightly embraced Celebrin, who was reduced to tears as he heard the tongue of his people, Sindarin, spoken by the youth he called Lhiuwan. Embracing the other elf Celebrin cried into his shoulder, overwhelmed with the joy of finding another elf exiled in the East…

Suddenly this joy was short lived for Celebrin's memory came to him of the Eldar who have been exiled in the long history of the elves and the list was short…

The first was himself, a son of Doriath

The second was Daeron who had since faded into shadow and mist it was said,

And the third…the third was not Sindar at all, yet his hands were burned beyond use, his voice once fair and filled with music, now made hoarse from the pain inflicted by a fateful jewel long ago…at the shores of Avernien,

Celebrin was suddenly filled with great rage and anger and with unlooked for strength he pushed Lhiuwan away from him against the wall,

"NO!"

He screamed filled with the sudden realization of who the elf was that starred at him now in disbelief and dejection. After that year of friendship and healing, of tender care and protection and laughter, Celebrin looked upon the other elf standing before him covered in wet clothes…

"No, no, no, no! It cannot be!"

, he kept telling himself, his body shivered in fear and loathing and it felt like his heart had broken once again… And now he saw the youth's face for the first time in all its fairness; it was a face he had seen before, at the destruction of Doriath; it was once a face filled with bloodlust and rage then, the face that ordered his mother killed upon the throne of Thingol, with naught but a sneer and a elitist glance…The face of Lhiuwan now red from the glow of the hearth was unmistakably the face of the last of the Feanorion, the face of Maglor.


	10. A King's Ransom

"My lord please reconsider…"

Said the small man dressed in bright golden robes; his hair was a deep ruddy color and aside from the blue of his eyes his face was aflame with freckles that were heightened by the deep dark tan that offset his once former pale skin. He followed the King of Gondor down a long, marble tiled corridor that glistened in the bright sunlight of spring's new coming, they strode down the corridor side by side as they left the great wide hall of lords into the King's throne room.

The royal complex of Osgiliath straddled the river Anduin and was laid out like a great cross with the great domed throne room of the King in the center that sat perched on a small island in the midst of the river. The Western corridor was part of a bridge that led to the great marketplace of Osgiliath, which lined the great Avenue of the Sun, a road that cut the city in two from the great golden Eastern Doors in the city gates to the mighty Western doors made of the finest silver and mithril. At the market one could buy elvish steel, fabrics, and wine from Thranduil's realm in the north; people could also buy furs and gold from the North, brought down the river by tall blonde merchants in strange garb who spoke a strange and foreign tongue. To the East of the throne room another corridor passed over a bridge that ended where another marketplace along the Avenue of the Sun stood. In this marketplace the citizens of Gondor could buy spices, ivories and hire servants from Harad that were brought from the south through the ports of Umbar and the Harad Road that led east to Khavul; there were also sold boats made by the folk of Mithlond and elvish craftsmen from Edhellond. The House of the Lords of Gondor was in actuality two large chambers built upon both sides of the great river before the great marketplaces, with a great bridge connecting them at the throne room and palace of the king int eh midst of the river. The western house was for the ancient lords of Northern and Western Gondor and the Eastern house was made for the newer Southern and Eastern provinces of Gondor. Below and surrounding the domed throne room of the king, straddling the mighty bridge and the Avenue of the Sun was the King's own private residence. The royal palace contained the great grain houses where food and tribute were stored and taxes collected.

As the two men crossed through the Northward corridor that led to the throne room, the small man, the vassal of Umbar, sped up his gait to try to keep up with the tall king who still retained a great deal of Numenorean blood within him.

"This is not up for discussion Lord Hadreth…The lands to the south of you do not belong to Gondor according to the treaty signed with the Council and Queen of Khavul; your settlers must either move northward to Harondor or Eastward into far Harad. Any further movement south beyond the river Khund and you will be violating that treaty which has kept peace in these lands for nearly half a century."

"But my lord...the River Khund has moved northward in the past few rainy seasons and several of my people are angry that Khavul has taken land that once belonged to them! Ask your surveyors and they are well aware that the river has moved!"

"What do you wish me to do Hadreth?…Cease the flow of the river or make it retain its shape? Yes these past few years the river has moved northward, but when the treaty was signed the river was further North than it is now…according to my own surveyors the river is merely returning to the place it once was when the treaty was signed…Move your people northward."

"My lord your people are chafing as it is…there is no more room in Gondor to contain them. Meanwhile the Queen of Khavul has been expanding her lands."

This took the King by surprise, he turned toward the short red-haired nobleman before him,

"What do you mean?"

"My informants and merchants have told me, that while Gondor is restrained by the borders of this treaty, Khavul is spreading its influence to a much wider space…Now the lands south of the Ayab Mamuk pay tribute to the Queen of Khavul in service for her protection of their merchants…The Khand of the Eastern ocean now have become part of the Great Council and have given her armed ships…Make no mistake my King Hyarmendacil, the encroachment upon my lands, upon the lands of Umbar, is but one move toward…toward creating an empire that stretches from sea to sea, one not ruled by the calm hand of a Gondorian King, but by the chaotic council of the East."

, shaking his head King Hyarmendacil said,

"I find it hard to believe that Queen Ashthera would so willingly do such a thing…The treaty clearly states that no attack upon Gondor is to come from the East. You are being paranoid Hadreth…the Queen of the East has ever been a valiant ally; why only a few years ago she sent to us the leaders of four Khand pirate bands that had been ransacking our ships as they made their way to the Eastern Ports of Khand – this move I am sure cost her much clout with her Eastern partners but she did so in accordance with our treaty. We have nothing to fear from the Queen of the East…But if it will assuage your fears I myself shall go into the East and speak with the Queen about the expansion of her lands…perhaps our treaty does need to be more specific about the lands East of the River Khavul."

He turned to face the throne room where he would hear representatives from the different areas of the city and their demands, complaints and receive tribute from the protectorate kingdoms along the Northern Anduin, just south of Taur na Fuin, Greenwood the great. Hadreth wrung his hands in frustration and turned to leave when a dark, shadowy figure came suddenly up from behind him,

"Our king seems to well enamoured with the Queen of the East does he not?"

The tall almost sinewy Lord of Anfalas stepped into the light of the noon day sun that streamed into the throne room from the large crystal windows placed up high in the tall steeple. His skin was taught and pale, almost like the skin of a newly shed snake; he smiled wryly and placed his hand softly upon Hadreth's shoulders.

"I share your worry too Hadreth…Our king is blinded by that time he spent among the Eastern barbarians and it will bring his people to ruin; he forgets to trust in his own people, in the might and nobility of Gondor and Numenor."

Hadreth snorted and together they left the throne room, Calamadril, the Lord of Anfalas coming into step behind him. Hadreth looked up at his companion and said,

"But what can we do to prove to him of the danger of their expansion? Surely you see it as well as I? More and more of the grain that feeds this city comes from the river valleys of Khavul and there is nothing to protect us from starvation if the Queen of that cursed city should decide to cut us off. With but one flick of her staff, she could starve us all and need not send an armed force…and our King would no doubt sell the kingdom to her the first moment he can."

Calamadril simply nodded his head at this; they had now come to the bridge that connected the Eastern chambers of the Lords of Gondor, there many lords and noblemen of Gondor and even northern Eridador and Arnor walked to and fro speaking about matters of state. The two leaned upon the railing of the bridge that glittered with pearls and looked southward along the river Anduin; the great bridge they stood upon allowed ships to pass north to south and vice-versa beneath their feet. Calamadril sighed and said to Hadreth,

"My greater worry comes from something more than a simple threat of grain…No my earnest friend the invasion from the East has already begun! Look to the Avenue of the Sun…what do you see?"

Hadreth looked eastward along the bridge and saw the market place of Osgiliath before him. Many tall tent-like structures were erected and the sounds of many voices seemed to echo out from that place which lined the main road of the city; the hazy spring afternoon seemed heavy with their sights and sounds.

"I see the Market…what of it?"

"Look beyond it you fool! Beyond the market toward the Gate of the Shepherds."

Hadreth looked eastwardly along the paved Avenue of the Sun which ran through the city from east to west and passed directly through the royal complex. His eyes hovered over the avenue until he came to the Eastern most edge of the city where the great wall that circled the eastern half of the city stood. In the middle of it a tall arched opening was built and great golden doors were made; this door was where the Harad road ended in its long path through the southern desert from Khavul, the amber city. Beyond the wall lay the forest of Ithilien and the Mountains of Shadow loomed in the distance to the West. Calamadril spoke as his companion looked Eastward,

"There do you see it? Right within the very gates of this city they make their home…The merchants of Khavul and the Harad fresh come from their long journeys from their desert homes. They have made the Eastern corridor their home and have taken up the tenements there…It has even come to the point where one cannot hear Westron spoken in the Eastern Corridor of this city, much less the high tongue of our people or the more ancient Sindarin or Quenya…No my friend there they speak the cruel babble tongue of the East and fill the streets of our city with their spawn."

Hadreth saw then what Calamadril meant, for in the Easter corridor, where once stood the hamlets and barns of the city's shepherds now stood crowded apartment-like structures built with clay bricks and thatched roofs rather than the blue tile or tin roofs of Gondorian homes made of grey or white stone. These places were not strewn with dirt or dilapidated but stood in stark contrast to the rather uniform white stone that the rest of the city was cut from. He had never passed by that part of the city before because unlike other travelers from the South and East, who mainly used the Harad road which ended at the Gate of the Shepherds, Hadreth took a boat from the havens of Umbar and sailed up the river through the Southern gate and up to the chambers of the Lords of Gondor.

"How could they be taking over this city? It seems like they are spreading!"

He said with horror and Calamadril laid his hand heavily upon his shoulder as though to calm him,

"Everyday our lord does not wish to see the cruel machinations of the East is another day we begin to lose ground on our Osgiliath…in our nation. The king must see the error of trusting the barbarians of the East…we must find a way for him to see that given the chance they will try to take the throne from him…and our nation from us."

* * *

Several weeks would pass before Ciryaher Hyarmendacil would take the journey to the East to speak with the Queen of Khavul and the Council of the East; upon this journey he took his son and wife and his two grandchildren, whom he hoped to show the vastness of the kingdom that they stood to inherit and the people who lived in it. The King left his steward Beleg upon the seat in Osgiliath and took a greatly decorated barge down the river Anduin; this ship was made upon the bones of his old war ship which he sailed to conquer the city of Umbar and wrest it from the clutches of Khamul, the shadow of the East. Yet now it was like a palace that floated upon the water for the sail glittered as though it were wrought and woven with pure gold and the beams glistened in the light of the sun. The great oars were the width of ancient maple and oak and as they beat the crashing waves they made the sound of thunder as they passed. When they arrived at the port of Umbar, Hadreth the vassal of the southern province greeted them kindly and gave them lodgings in his own home, which was richly decorated in the style of Osgiliath and built of white alabaster stone. It stood in stark contrast to the city around it that was built with hazel clay and brick and had terra cotta tiled roofs or roofs made of thatched dry wood or grass covered in pitch and clay.

The king stayed for two days listening to the merchant guilds and wealthy traders of Umbar and visiting with the Haradrim dignitaries who led the Western tribesmen of Far Harad. Then he and Alcarin alone took two white horses and with a lightly guarded caravan went out the city gates and journeyed till they met the Great Harad road. The road was paved with white stone and the mile markers were made of granite; every few miles a small well was erected and guarded by two Gondorian soldiers. Yet soon they came to where Gondor ended and where the lands of Khavul began. The raids upon the caravans had ceased since Ciryaher ordered an exploration of the bands that came from Umbar; several gangs and marauders were brought to court in Osgiliath. Even the magistrate's son, who was a Lieutenant of the Guard of Umbar, was brought in for trial for he had long made truce with the raiding bands and offered them sanctuary. Since then the raiding along the Gondorian stretch of the Harad road had ended and the section along the road to Khavul was guarded by Hamadjon and Ayab-Mamuk warriors. Once they had passed the borders the king ordered his men to head to the nearest Oasis and set up camp while he and Alcarin spoke with the Hamadjon dignitaries that held guard near the border crossing.

"Well my son, the time has now come for you to venture into the east and see what Kings are truly made of."

The youth wiped the sweat from his face and took a swig from his water skin,

"Could we not order the Queen to meet us in Umbar? It seems unbecoming for a king as powerful as you to travel in this… wasteland."

"When you become king you will understand…Being a king means commanding respect but it also means giving it in…"

The king's voice was silenced by a sudden swish of air and he let out a moan as an arrow embedded itself in his chest, near his right shoulder. The wound was not mortal yet it was poisoned and he made to draw out his sword as his vision became blurry and hazed. He called out to his son, yet the young man cried out for the guards and sped his horse in that direction, away from his wounded father. Several of the Gondorian guard heard the cries of the young prince and raced to their king's aid. Four there were that rode to succor their king their bright shining armor and long swords drawn in valiant defense, yet their race was short lived for from the sand dunes came cruel men dressed in black and their arrows were quick and as deadly as their steeds. The four guards were quickly shot in the most vulnerable parts of their armor and their horses were caught in sand traps laid about the side of the road. Laughing the cruel men approached as the king swung his sword weakly,

"Back you devils…I am king of Gondor…con...conqueror of the East…"

Yet his horse, before it could run was laid low by a spear thrown from the high sand dunes that surrounded the road. The steed's short life ended and it fell with great weight upon the king of Gondor, whose last memories was of cruel laughter and shadows surrounding him, towering over him and blotting out the sun.

* * *

When Ciryaher awoke the world was in utter darkness, he had no recollection of where he was or how long he had been asleep, all he knew was that he was not yet dead, though his ribs and sides ached with the soreness and fragility of bruising. His senses slowly returned to him as he felt the rough fabric of the blindfold scratch against his eyelids, it smelled of blood and urine and something else he did not want to think about. He tried to stand but his arms and legs were tightly bound, roughly pinching him were the knots of a heavy rope; his face fell flat in his struggle against gritty earth that was still warm to the touch- he was still in the wild desert that much he knew. He smelled cooked meat and could feel the warmth of a hearth fire to his right, he turned to face that direction but suddenly felt a tightening of a chain around his neck. He choked and spat as the chain was pulled tight and a slow burning laughter came from somewhere next to him,

"So…you have awakened?"

The voice said to him in Alamb-Harad, the voice was gritty and coarse, which was not uncommon in the desert lands, yet it was also scarred by something. The guard walked up to the bound king and flipped him onto his back,

"We thought you took too much poison…it would be a pity to extract a ransom for a dead man."

Again the guard laughed,

"Who are you?"

Asked the king, he noticed how detached and slow his words came out of him mouth and how hard he had to labor to speak, the poison was still affecting him and every move he made was a struggle.

"I would not move my king, it only makes the poison work harder and faster…the more you struggle…well eventually your heart will give out on you too soon…Oh and by the way, the Queen sends her regards."

A swift kick rolled the king onto his stomach and the pain was not as horrid as it should be,; a fortunate side effect of the poison no doubt as it seemed to numb his muscles. The man laughed again and knelt beside the king taking the his chin in his hand,

"Your son was easy to capture…he squeeled like a pig when I gutted him!"

Ciryaher's mind began to race and the image of his own son bleeding upon the sand made him want to rip the guard's throat open with his bare hands, he made to curse at the guard but quickly a bit of some sort was placed over his mouth and he futilely screamed against it. He felt his body lifted from the ground and he was dragged or forced to walk, he could not quite discern which, into what felt like the open air. He could feel the fire against his legs and the soft cool breeze of the desert upon his chin, which made his cheeks and neck erupt in a flurry of goosebumps and caused his hair to stand on end. He heard other laughter coming from around him and his captors took in his visage. Immediately the blindfold was taken off as his eyes squinted in the new light of the fire; once his eyes became used to the light he was greeted with a horrifying and grotesque scene. Impaled upon spits four of his guards hung, their entrails sliced from their abdomen and their armor lay in a shimmering and shining heap upon the floor. The men surrounding him were dressed in black robes and garb, their faces covered by scarves that were full of holes and tattered edges. They wore gauntlets around their wrists that shimmered gold in the firelight; he could not yet tell the insignia that was written upon it, yet he felt that his guard had spikes upon his for they rammed into the small of his back causing immense pain and sending him to his knees. Heavy laughter followed as they jeered and mocked him, they spoke a strange dialect of Alamb-Harad, one that he had never before heard. From what he could understand they called him King and spat upon him with something sounding like the word for Donkey. They slapped him and punched him, kicked him in his ribs, causing him to double over in pain; yet finally, their leader, he supposed for he wore a bright red and gold sash about his face, stood and motioned for them to stop. In broken Alamb-Harad he said,

"Enough! He must make it to Khavul to kneel before the Queen in one piece; Gondor will not pay the ransom with him dead."

Ciryaher looked up at the leader, his cruel eyes gleaming back at him, their fierce hazel hue glimmering red in the fire light. His skin was pale as snow and burnt pink in the corners. Coughing and gasping the King stood on his knees and said,

"Tell me your name stranger…so that I might know the name of the man whose throat I shall slit."

The leader laughed and struck the king upon the cheek causing him to fall down on his side. The leader placed his foot harshly upon the king's throat,

"Hassashasin, my king…that is the only name you need call me by."

Ciryaher though, was stronger than he let on and once his senses returned to him he kicked high and knocked the leader forward tripping him into the blazing fire. The laughter ceased as the others stood in amazement; Ciryaher rolled into a ball and being surprisingly limber for a man of his age he threaded his legs between his arms allowing them to come to the front. While he did this the guards leapt into the fire rolling their leader out of it, his robes dancing with flame engulfing him as he screamed in agony. Others looked to the prisoner who leapt up to his feet and began to run away from the campfire. They drew their swords and immediately gave chase, the fine grains of sand kicking up as each foot sunk into the warm dry desert terrain. The king only went a few feet before his captors overtook him, for he was still weak from the effects of the poison and his ribs were severely cracked from his beating. One swift scout, no larger than a young boy leapt on top of him and brought him harshly to the ground, winding a leather whip around his neck. Ciryaher's tongue stuck out and as he attempted to breathe, his mouth was filled with sand. The others came and grabbed him by his legs binding them as though he were a deer caught on a hunt. Still he struggled to be free, his hands bound and pinned beneath his body. His captors laughed as they bound his feet, spitting upon his face; one grabbed a hold of the curls of his brown hair and stuffed his face into the ground forcing the king's mouth to fill with sand. The young man opened his mouth to say some joke to his compatriots, but his voice was silenced. Instead a throaty gurgle came out and when his fellow guards looked to him they found a red feathered arrow sticking out of his throat.

They stood to fight but it was a quick death for them, whooping calls like feral cats came from the sand dunes surrounding them and dark shapes leapt out of the shadows around them. Many armed warriors descended upon them and like a pride of lionesses they slew the men with shimmering silver axes and swords before they even had a chance to raise their swords. Cries of pain and death came from far off as the King was rolled onto his back, he saw five dark shapes standing over him holding bright shining weapons, yet that was the last that he saw for his body succumbed to the poison and he knew no more.


	11. Kinslayer

_So sorry for the long wait, hopefull if you have read this far you have been enjoying the tale and the journey. Please as always read and review. _

He ran far before he knew he was running; into the rain he sped, the drops of water barely touching him or wetting his clothing. Yet finally he stopped as the mud took his sandals and the summer rain rent his body around in the gales of the monsoon that battered his body this way and that. Falling to his knees he could still hear the other elf crying after him, exhorting him to stop; the sound of the voice's echo in his ears forced him to his feet and he stumbled on until he fell into a bramble of thorny bushes and wept as though his heart was taken from his chest and all the blood he saw on his hands reminded him of that day long ago in Doriath, beset by war…

* * *

He ran through the woods then also; the sounds of the heavy breathing of the other scouts close to him, began to waver and gasp. His quiver rubbed against his back as the cracking of wood began to surround him.

"They set the woods on fire! The cursed fiends! They are burning the forest of Neldoreth!"

Minrodlin cried, his voice hoarse and callow, barely audible as the fires chased them toward Menegroth. The tall elf fell to his knees, his glimmering blue eyes set in a visage of pain and anguish, as Elrhîw, their captain, picked him up firmly by the arm, draped it over his shoulder and began to carry his comrade away. The handsome vigorous captain , who in more peaceful times always had a ruddy complexion and a smile on his face, turned to the young Celebrin, who stood in shock at the scene behind them, the beloved woods of his childhood, where Luthien danced in beauty and love, now ablaze

"Oi, Celebrin!"

, Elrhîw cried, bringing him back to his senses,

"Get to the caves! Hurry, they are comAAAAAAAGHH!"

Yet the elf said no more as an arrow's tip jutted out of his throat and sprayed Celebrin's face with blood; Elrhîw fell to his knees, his hands shaking at the shaft protruding out of his long slender neck; other arrows came and claimed Minrodlin as he stood there in weariness and broken spirit, not even allowing him a chance to scream. Celebrin then ran beside Culathien, the second-in-command of their scouting party; she pulled him by the arm forcing him to run as arrows fled past them,

"We can do nothing for them young one!"

, she screamed at him, her voice quivering and broken. Elrhiw was her husband- they had just married a year ago- yet still she dragged Celebrin by the arm into the thickest part of the forest. She turned him to face her, her green eyes staring into his of pitch black,

"The Prince must know that they are coming; you must run and run quickly, you are the fleetest of foot, though your legs be short. Go now! Take hold of yourself! RUN!"

, she cried as she pushed him forward, he did not even look back to see if she kept up with him; surely she would try to slow the enemies' pursuit somehow, so that they did not cross the Esgalduin and cross the bridge toward the doors of Menegroth.

He kept running until he no longer felt the greedy flames upon his back, he ran until the timbers of the woods turned into a great green blur and all he saw was the grassy hill that led up to the gates of Menegroth. He ran until his legs burned and his feet bled, he outran the fire and the sounds of death and destruction; he abandoned his bow and let it fall by the wayside, he ran and ran and did not even notice that he had crossed the ford of the river until he fell upon the banks within sight of the gates of Menegroth. The regiment of Celeborn had already seen the flames licking the forest of Neldoreth in the northwestern border of Doriath,

"Celebrin! Celebrin!"

He heard his father's voice call to him as the Herald of Celeborn ran to his side and pulled him up to his feet from the banks of the river, nearly dragging him to the doors. There Celeborn stood and beside him Oropher and Amdir sat on the steps of Menegroth, the great doors half shut as people entered in from the corners of the realm. Celebrin tried to speak but his voice was too filled with gasps for air,

"They…are…coming…Elrhîw…Minrodlin…dead."

, was all he could say; his father dragged him to a small hillock to the left of the great doors where his mother stood, her dirt covered face told that she had been helping the refugees enter the cavernous keep. She sat by him as his father returned to where the Prince of Doriath stood- as herald Tinnu Elorn was charged with an attempt at diplomacy with the invaders, but that had failed a few weeks ago when the sons of Feanor sent him back chased by arrows. The Noldor had not been able to break into the dense woods that surrounded Doriath for the Sindar archers were too well hidden and the defenses made easy work of the Noldor who entered into them with their shimmering armor, easy targets in the dense dark green of the forest.

Yet now the great evil was fire and it ate through their defenses as easily as a hungry wolf pack tears into a wounded deer; now archers and scouts began to run or swim through Esgalduin as the entire forest of Neldoreth blazed in the distance. The enemy were still over a mile away but that was too near to give the Sindar much time to properly defend Menegroth; as Celebrin took in great gasps of air his father returned hale and stern in mood,

"We cannot wait any longer, the doors must be shut or they will over run us…Get him inside Tathiril…and do not turn back."

"Father…I can help…"

,Celebrin said, coughing with exertion; he made to stand but Tinnu Elorn placed his hand firmly upon the young elf's shoulder, smiling at his son's simple but foolish courage,

"With what my son? Nay, valiant as you are, your part in the war is over. Go inside with your mother and make sure she is safe, I will come to you when I can…go now!"

Just then a great creaking sound came from the direction of Himlad to the Northeast, a machine made of timbers and iron broke through the woods on the other side of the river; Like a menacing scorpion it stood several yards long and gave a great whining sound as its two great arms swung massive axes to and fro, cutting away the thick cut trees and dense foliage to their stumps. The refugees gave out a collective cry of anguish as the war machine broke through the forest, trees ancient and hale fell in great thunderous clamor and rolled to the base of the mighty stone hill, splashing into the river. An army arrayed in golden armor ushered forth through the breach, their twin leaders helmed in brilliant red and gold armor, their masks a frightful vision of blood and shimmering steel.

Away to battle Tinnu Elorn went, leaping to his feet and calling for the elves of Celeborn to follow him for the defense of their land. His conch horn, Aearlin, the song of the sea, called out its immense battle cry which shook the very hills with its sonorous cry. It was a fell cry and the Noldor at the base of Menegroth's great stone hill quaked in fear that Ulmo himself had come to defend the Sindar of Thingol and kin of Olwe. The great phalanx of the Sindar, the regiment and infantry of Celeborn prince of Doriath, ran to meet the Noldor, their armor glistening silver in the light of the sun. Blue was their raiment and green were their cloaks, deep and dark as living spirits of the woods themselves; their axes rose up to meet the shimmering steel swords of the invaders. Celebrin's eyes were fixed on his father's figure running down the steep slope of the hill followed by his faithful soldiers, the guard of Aelin-uial, arrayed in shimmering silver, blue, green and gray.

His mother pulled him toward the great gate of Menegroth as the lords of Doriath ushered their forces in defense, Amdir calling to his archers ordered them to set guard about the gates at the highest circles of the great hill; Oropher ordering the cavalry of Dior that sprang out of the stable entrance and marshalling them to race behind the infantry of Celeborn, their banners flowing like thunderous folds of rain clouds, descending down the mountains. Galadriel, the wife of Celeborn held the door, her gentle sword Gwathgrist shimmering in the bright light of the sun; her eyes were wide and filled with tears as the women and children of Doriath sped into the darkness of the caves the sound of battle close behind them. She grabbed Tathiril and began to pull her in as the doors began to close, yet the she-elf, handmaiden of Melian herself would not move, for her eyes were fixed upon the field of battle.

Celebrin saw it too, his father, circled by the horde of the Noldor, fought with one of the generals of the host that broke the last defenses. His sword, Lingaladh sung in the heat of battle, its silver crescent glimmering red with the blood of the invading elves, crashing with definite song against the bright straight blade of the Noldor general. Suddenly Elorn struck the chin of the Noldo with the butt of his sword and sent the bright steel helm flying into the air, flashing cool and bright in the sun, revealing the Feanorion Celegorm, fair of face, yet now it was marred with bloodlust. The hit sent him flying to the ground, prone to the sword of the herald of Celeborn. Yet in that brief moment of victory an arrow flew through the sky and embedded itself in the chest of Tinnu Elorn and he cried in pain. Still he fought on as Celegorm rose to his feet and brought his long sword down upon Celebrin's father, yet the herald blocked and sparks flew as their steel grinded and clanged amidst the din of war. Again the Herald of Celeborn fought his foe to his very knees and victory seemed near, though blood now poured from his chest and stained the silver of his hauberk.

Still as a statue his wife and child were as another arrow flew through the air and sunk into his abdomen and he let out a cry of pain and staggered back. The cavalry was still too far to lend aid or drive back the sons of Feanor; Celebrin watched as silence filled the world - the long sword of the Noldo prince swung through the air and cleaved his father's head from his shoulders. The silence, so thick as a deep mist or as though one became submersed in water, deafened him and he heard nothing of the battle nor the cries of pain and death; nothing until his mother gave a fey cry of sorrow and he was pulled by a strong hand into the darkness of Menegroth as tears rushed down his cheeks.

"I am sorry young one…but flight is your only duty now…"

, said the lady Galadriel as she carried him into the darkness of Menegroth; the Lady of the Noldor was strong and though Celebrin kicked and screamed down the corridor she pulled him into the safety and vastness of the caves. Even then his mother leapt from her place by the gates and ran into the fray beyond, calling out the name of her husband and her voice was silenced by the shutting of the gates of Menegroth…

Celebrin awoke as thunder crashed about him and he returned in mind and body to the gorge in the southern roots of the Orocarni, he looked about him and saw the dense brush wet and smooth with the droplets of rain. His breathing had slowed and he curled into a ball and wept as he did when he was a child afraid of the dark sounds in the wild.

* * *

Maglor remained standing at the mouth of the cave as the elf he had discovered ran from him as one runs from a cursed shadow of Morgoth. He stood there and waited by the light of the hearth for what seemed like hours, thinking of dark thoughts as they came to his mind, looking upon his hands that now burned with an intense fire as though he held again the silmaril made by his own father once again. He walked about the cavern as the cat purred listlessly in the store room beyond, escaping the sounds of thunder and rain outside and Durandir neighed with intense anger and fear. Maglor sat, grabbing at his hair and weeping, for his mood has shifted from one of great joy to that of greater sorrow, the curse of his sins weighed heavy upon him and an inner demon in his thought said with coy and subtle laughter,

"Ever to send your kin running from your face? Alone ye shall be and in sorrow and loneliness you shall live, forever more…"

In a fit of anger he picked up a stone that lay by the wall of the cave and threw it out the great wide opening into the rain outside. He fell to his knees and collapsed into weeping and yet a faint shimmer of light caught his eye, it came from where he had picked up the stone. He went to the hollow in the wall and saw the bright red reflection of the hearth fire upon shimmering polished steel. He reached his hand into the hollow and pulled from its recesses a blade long and curved, that glittered silver in the firelight, like ice cold steel. The handle was an emerald polished wood upon which was worked the shell leaves of a willow tree and upon the hilt the device of a sea turtle was carved in intricate design. The turtle, which was made of shell bore a seal upon its back, three stars engraved in mithril beneath a silver tree. The blade was ancient and looked something akin to a long axe yet its blade was curved and as long as a sword. Upon the hilt was worked two letters, written in the Cirth of Daeron- two runes standing side by side upon the chappe, one signifying the letter "d" and the other signifying the letter "th". A tear fell upon his cheek and slowly cascaded down to his neck as his memory recalled him of one of his most egregious of sins…

* * *

At the Battle of Doriath, the second of the kinslayings, he rode upon his white steed through the forests of Region near the land of Himlad. Long they had been held back and many of their soldiers were lost in the dense woods of Doriath, for though their armor could turn away the steel and arrow of the orc, it was no match for the tactics of the Sindar, who allowed the soldiers to enter the woods until they were cut off or forced to separate from one another. And then they were ambushed and returned to their encampment, filled with the arrows of the Moriquendi; Maedhros and the others devised new ways to attack Doriath and Maglor liked them not. The Aegcarka was one, built by Celegorm and Curufin, it had broken through the dense forest that shielded Menegroth from open attack and cut through the wood a space wide enough for his cavalry to ride through, behind the garrison of his twin brothers. His knights rode swiftly behind him, their golden armor shimmering bright and brilliantly like many jewels as the fell iron bells of their horses rang through the sound of warfare ahead of them.

As he came up to the great war machine he saw before him a grisly sight, the darkly clad soldiers of Doriath held back his brothers' infantry, though the ground was soaking with the red blood of their people; behind them the archers let go a volley and many thousands of arrows fell like rain, cutting through the Noldorin armor or finding their way into the openings near the neck and under the arms. Celegorm stood in the midst of it all, his helm taken off his head and he was drenched in blood, an arrow lodged into his thigh, and yet with the help of two soldiers he limped toward the Aegcarka far from the reach of the arrows as Curufin, his twin, covered his retreat. Maglor saw then that his cavalry would not be enough, for riding swiftly down from the high hill, upon which the doors of Menegroth stood, was a great host of riders led by their captain Oropher, their spears dark and shimmering. Too many there were and too strongly did they ride to aide their comrades, for the ground itself shook beneath them. Celegorm called out to him,

"Brother…my men cannot last much longer! They will be ridden down!"

"You should have waited for me Celegorm, you ran in too quickly and misjudged their defense! The field is lost, you must sound retreat!"

"But Curufin…"

Maglor saw indeed that his brother, Curufin would soon be caught by the spears of the Sindar when the steeds approached; with a call from his horn he raced his cavalry to the north around the melee to meet the horses of Doriath that rode beneath the banner of Dior. His heart pulsed and he felt the coppery taste of blood in his mouth as his horses white and grand, bred from the stables of Orome himself, thundered toward the lesser horses of the Moriquendi, brown and mixed breed as they were. The two forces crashed upon one another like massive waves and though he was outnumbered they prevented the Sindar horsemen from reaching those on foot. However by sheer numbers his force was pushed back and many were lost as they were run through by the spears of the Sindar and they fell from their horses never again to rise to see the sun; his attention then turned toward his left where Curufin and his soldiers tried to retreat, still the grey-elves fought them but a sight took his attention in that moment. For among the soldiers of the Sindar stood a she-elf, fey and terrible to behold, her hair flew about her face like a mad storm cloud and her hazel eyes burned bright like shafts of lightning. Tears streamed her face as she raised a sword into her hands and cut down the Noldor when they turned to retreat; in a fey and hoarse voice she called to the Sindar,

"Follow them! Follow them and hew them as they cut the timbers of Region!"

Valiant and mad she was and the elves about her cried in unison, heartened by her call; they pressed forward mowing down Celegorm and Curufin's force. She alone seemed to chase an elf armored in gold and red; that armor was worn by none other than Maglor's laughing brother Curufin. Curufin raised his sword in defense and the two shafts of steel clashed terribly in the din of war, yet she being fey and unhindered swung her sickled saber and in a flash of light hewed the hands of his brother in a spray of blood and bone. Curufin yelled a silent scream as his sword and hands fell to the ground useless to him and in an instant his chest was run through by the crescent blade of the mad she-elf cutting his heart in two…

Maglor heard a great cry go out from his own throat as his brother fell to the ground, his eyes fixed in terror and pain, his blood covering his armor as it poured out onto Doriath's soil. The she-elf was carried off by the other infantry of her people as the cavalry of the Sindar came around the sides and ran down the Noldor who tried to flee. Still she fought to be free and run again into danger as though she no longer cared for anything and hungered only for death in battle. Maglor, with white hot tears in his eyes heard the horn of retreat- he and what were left of his horsemen fought their way out of the melee and into the dense forest of Region, chased by arrows and spears that flew like hawks upon them. When at long last he came to the safety of their own defenses at the Northern edge of Region he leapt off his steed and ran to his brother, Celegorm, who wept upon his knees, whispering Curufin's name in sorrow and defeat...

* * *

Maglor dropped the blade he held and it fell to the ground singing of blood and war and he stepped back shaking his head; as he retreated from the memory his foot tripped upon the sandstone bowl and he fell upon his back breaking it beneath him. Suddenly his sight caught the silhouette of a figure standing in the doorway of the cave; it approached slowly forward and knelt by the sword, picking it up and with slow methodical movement pointed it at Maglor, the shimmering steel glowing blood red in the firelight. The other elf stood now, wet from the rain, his deep black eyes set like burning coals or mirrors made of obsidian, cool and gloomy and clouded. A calm anger he wore upon his face and his mouth opened,

"So many years…so many ages of the world have come and gone and never had I thought I would see your kind again…Maglor, the accursed…Maglor the fallen…many names they made for you and said that you had shivered up and blew away with the wind…a shadow cursed to haunt the shores of the sea forever…Do you know who I am?"

The voice was alien and bereft of all sentiment, yet it was deep as the chasms of the canyon and flowed with the ill ease of the ocean before the onset of a storm. Maglor was taken by fear and crawled backward into the wall of the cave.

"My friend…please…"

"Do not dare call me friend! Not after what you had done…What sins you had committed! How many souls and how many bodies lie at your feet, Maglor Feanorion!…Bodies of your kin, of your own people, how many?"

Celebrin shook with the tremors of anger as he slowly walked toward Maglor, who cowered against the wall; his heart beat quicker now and Lingladaear seemed to hum as he held it in his hand. Celebrin held the blade aloft but his hand would not stop shaking, trembling with anticipation,

"Do you know who I am!"

, he cried out at the prone figure of the Noldor on the floor, whose tears sent ruptures into his burning heart,

"Of course you do not…how could you know? How could you even care to know the names of those marred by your bloodlust…by your evil need to slay your own kind?"

"The deeds of those days wear heavy upon me…"

"Silence! I did not give thee leave to speak Ngoldo!...I am Uial Celebrin, son of Tinnu Elorn and Tathiril Ardavess of Doriath…Herald of Celeborn and Handmaiden of Melian the Maia!"

And then Celebrin stood tall and his form was fey and wild as an elf born of ancient blood that stirred and beat at the heart of Cuivienen; silhouetted by the hearth and amplified by the echo of the chamber, the elf's voice thundered like the voice of Mandos or the cry of Tulkas in war, unmatched. His eyes flamed like bright stars and his tears glimmered as they fell down his face, like showering flames of broken light. Yet just as quickly as the vengeful image had come so too did it fade and Celebrin the elf backed away, lowering his sword and weeping,

"My…my father … My father was slain in that first attack on Menegroth…hewed down like a lamb in slaughter before the gates… With my own eyes I saw this feat, accomplished cowardly by your brother. He…he was my hero, my strength…my teacher…my protector…snuffed out like a flame in a windstorm and you do not remember him? Tall he was and valiant, his voice rang clear and was always joyous…slain by your brother's hand!"

Celebrin's anger returned to him and he raised the steel coming toward Maglor who now began to rise. At the tip of the blade Maglor backed into the wall and a thick wad of saliva passed heavily through his throat.

"I …I am truly sorry…the oath…"

"Silence!...I will give the orders now and you will listen to everything I have to say…and then…then we shall see if Lingladaear wishes to seek its vengeance upon you."

Celebrin's eyes were mad with grief and anger and he seemed as one possessed. Maglor only nodded as he tried to writhe away from the point of the blade, which hummed now louder, thirsty for blood,

"My mother…You perhaps remember her? She stood upon the dais of Thingol, were Dior was slain, when you and your horde finally broke through the gates of Menegroth. She defended our queen…our Nimloth…do you remember her? Many she slew in her wrath and your archers, upon your very word shot her down like she was some feral cat, too afraid to approach her…but that was not enough…no…when you and your soldiers came to kill the last queen of Doriath your men tossed my mother's body down the stairs of the dais like a heap of garbage…and they laughed at their sport…Do you remember her now!"

Celebrin stepped forward raising Lingladaear as it flashed in the flame light and then he slipped upon the shards of the sandstone bowl, falling upon his face the sword landing on the floor with a resounding knell. Tears streamed out of his eyes as he lay there, like one struck down by thunder as Maglor stood a little way off, shaken by fear and trembling at the broken elf before him. Whimpering like a wounded child Celebrin got to his knees and still holding the sword looked at it as the reflections of the firelight flickered upon his face,

"She was…She was kind and good-hearted, before you came…She knew the tongues of the birds and the beasts and all the woods hearkened to see her dance…She danced with such joy and fervor that her feet seemed aflame…and she loved me…Even when I was too small to bring honor to my father as a soldier she loved me…My home…my home…no more…and me, alone forever, last of a noble people."

Maglor's heart was struck by the whispers of the elf before him; conquering his fear he moved to approach the elf, who seemed to take no heed of him. With his lips trembling Maglor came behind Celebrin and placed his hand gingerly upon his shoulder and for that brief moment of tenderness, Celebrin did nothing to move him away. Suddenly Maglor's mind flashed to the sword that now lay limp at the elf's knees and his thoughts turned to taking it away, to throwing it into the hearth or out the cavern entrance…But suddenly Celebrin came back to his senses and with a quick move shoved Maglor off of him and took hold of the hilt of his sword again,

"Do not touch me, cursed wretch!...You are not my friend! Nor do I call you kin…not even by the waters of Cuivienen do I count you among the elder children! ...I would slay you where you stood and thereby ease the torment of a thousand dead Sindar that quail in the halls beyond the sea and thus avenge my parents' death!"

Celebrin raised the sword and it gleamed like fire as he held it aloft and Maglor closed his eyes and fell to his knees,

"Do it then and end my suffering! Kill me now and I shall not call thee a kinslayer nor shall my blood be ever upon your hands for in doing this deed, I shall hold it the doom of Illuvatar and penance for my many sins."

Maglor awaited the final blow, upon his knees, his arms outstretched, the sting of steel that would cleave into his flesh and end his life. Yet it did not come, he waited more and the torture of waiting for death to come to him was a wretched thing; at last he opened his eyes and saw no one standing before him. He scanned the cavern and saw, by a flash of lightning Celebrin sitting at the mouth of the cave, allowing the rain to fall upon him; the blade rested in his hand and shimmered no more with bloodlust. Maglor sat in the recesses of the cave at first for fear kept him from approaching the other elf again; as he got to his feet he heard Celebrin's voice, now sad and solemn,

"Is this the cruelty of fate? That my enemy should come to me and show me nothing but remorse and anguish, thereby robbing my vengeance of any completion or satisfaction? Is this some cruel joke of yours?"

He screamed into the heavens, Maglor knew not to whom he was speaking, and he began to say something but Celebrin continued,

"If I did this thing...If I took your life I would be no better, no greater in spirit or mind than even the least of your accursed and vile people. And I shall not allow you to rob the last son of Doriath of his honor…"

Celebrin turned to face Maglor and he threw the sword into the fire; his face though was stern and unmoving, callous and cold it hid a soul yearning to cry and wreak havoc on the world. Maglor stood now unsure of what to do, with his lips trembling he said,

"I…I do remember your mother…I feared her…that's why…"

Yet as he said this Celebrin's face turned to a mask of pain and Maglor stopped. The two of them stood in silence for a brief time and then Maglor walked to where Celebrin stood and wanted to lay his hand upon the elf's shoulder, he wanted to say that the years of torment reminded him of every elf he had slain, and every life he had taken had made a mockery of the proud noble oath of Feanor…He raised his hand to rest it upon Celebrin's shoulder, yet as he did this Celebrin said, in a voice firm and unwavering,

"Go…I have healed you and upheld my oath to tend your wounds and give you protection."

"But…"

"Go…Take what you need, water skins, food, even the horse…Anything that will remove you from this place quickly, take it and leave…GO!"

Tears began to flow from Celebrin's eyes and the sorrow and anger in them made Maglor step back and though his heart yearned to do otherwise he assented and went to the storage room. There the cat greeted him and followed him as he took two satchels and two waterskins and filled them with food and water that was gathered in great clay jugs. He took a simple stone hatchet and a bundle of light yucca rope and again entered the main quarters of the cavern home. Maglor looked upon the other elf and his heart moved him to say more but the elf was stoic and his eyes moved not from where they rested, upon the sword as it lay in the confines of the hearth, the flames dancing upon the silver blade yet not consuming it, for it was made of the craft of the dwarves and Noldorin ere their skill waned. Maglor passed by the other elf as he made to go, the cat following close beside him; he stopped as he went out of the mouth of the cave. The rain had since ceased though the clouds above were still dark and menacing, covering the stars from his sight. Turning to Celebrin he said,

"You saved me…you … healed me, when no others would, and now you showed me mercy, knowing who I was, when I deserved nothing but death for what I did to your home…to your people…and to your family. Twice you have saved my life and brought me back from the brink of destruction and, for my part…I call you my friend. I am indebted to you…Celebrin, Son of Doriath…"

With that he turned and began to descend the walkway to the canyon below. The cat followed him, yet stopped suddenly, meowing after him in a questioning and sorrowful voice. Maglor stopped and turned to see the cat walk back to Celebrin, nuzzling him at his ankles one last time before running to follow Maglor into the wet darkness of the desert wild. Celebrin did not watch as Maglor left, nor did he move from where he stood until the last embers of the fire died away and his sword gleamed in the dawn's light, untouched by the flames of the hearth, for it was made by the smiths of Belegost and Gondolin and greater fire than that hearth would be needed to end their masterful work. Celebrin stood as still as a statue watching as the evening dimness passed overhead and new morning's light entered the world.


	12. Rescue

He lay in a soft straw bed as the cool, morning air brushed itself on his bare chest, the fine curled hairs waving like tiny trees upon his bronze skin. A soft hand brushed its delicate fingers across the softly rising and falling skin of his torso and made their way slowly down his stomach and danced playfully upon the curvature of his bellybutton. He brought the soft figure close to him and breathed in the subtle aroma of her hair, which always smelt of rosemary and lavender; she melted into him yet her hands firmly pushed against him and maneuvered her raven crowned face to lie gingerly upon his chest. Her supple lips glided over his neck and said ever so serenely,

"How long have you been watching me sleep?"

, she said, moaning lightly like a cat, purring with erotic satisfaction. Ciryaher brushed his hands through her hair and brought his lips to hers, taking in the sweetness of her saliva,

"Only a few minutes hence, go back to sleep, it is not yet sunrise."

"You have already awakened me… You must pay for such insolence, your queen commands it."

She joked with him as she maneuvered her curved body so that she straddled his hips and lay herself upon his muscled warrior's form.

"I would gladly pay the price you lay upon me…Is it a kiss? Or perhaps a massage?"

"Neither…You must pay a price far greater than any of these."

"All that I have is yours; name it and you shall have it for eternity and more."

, she smiled and pressed her warm body upon his and he felt the surge of his early morning blood flow through him with an almost electric shock. Whispering in his ear she said,

"Your heart and no lesser thing…"

"That you own already…my love…my..."

* * *

Ciryaher's dream ebbed away and the image of Anatse faded into darkness; as his eyes blinked open Ciryaher whispered Anatse's name to the morning's darkness. His wits returned to him as he looked about him and saw the same tent he had awakened in earlier, with the cruel Harad guard and his men outside. Yet now he was not tied, nor was he lying upon the grainy sand, but instead upon foul smelling rugs that were at least comfortable. He realized he could not yet move his tired and worn muscles and other than his eyes the rest of his body seemed almost still asleep. Yet soon his ears became used to the sounds of silence around him and he caught hushed voices outside the tent.

"Why do you keep this, _man, _alive? We have waited too long for him to awaken…we should have let death take him and be done with it…then our people would have justice."

, this voice was light and rushed; and it was answered by another calm and collected,

"My heart is with you my friend but his death would not return our lands! And a far greater price would be on our head if we returned to Khavul with him dead. I will not lay hands on him till the Queen herself has ordained his life and nor shall you, do I make myself clear?"

"Yes my General…but how long till we move again? The villains will return in force and I would like better to be in safer lands…even those of the Ayab Mamuk."

"We wait for him to be well enough to travel…and we wait for _them_. Do you doubt your skill with the axe if chance would come to need it?"

The other scoffed at this and chuckled,

"The axe I have a well handle on…I fear Lydia's skill with a bow."

The two laughed at this and Ciryaher could tell by their tongue and by their voices that two Hamadjon warriors sat outside, yet their laughter did not bring him ease for they spoke of leaving him to die and this numbness would indeed paralyze him. He tried to move his fingers but found it incredibly difficult for all of his muscles seemed cold and not entirely his. As his eyes became more adapted to the dim light he saw that he was propped upon pillows and a small bowl of water lay beside him. His parched lips moaned and immediately a masked figure entered the tent; she was tall and her stance was wide for she walked as soldiers do, ever ready to spring into action. She wore deep garnet tunics and her hands were wrapped in a black and silver ribbon upon which hung a bracelet of gold coins. She walked toward him and immediately stooped to pick up the water bowl. As she approached him he noticed her purple eyes were heavily lined with coal, a tactic often used in the desert to keep out the sun. She dabbed a towel into the bowl and brought the wet towel to his lips. As the cool water slowly soaked into his dry lips and down his scratchy throat he managed to slur out a few words in Alamb-Harad; until he knew this Hamadjon's intentions he would not reveal that he spoke a little of their tongue.

"Who …are… you?"

"I am She-that-rescued-you…Now rest, your body has been much affected by the poison."

Ciryaher tried to move his arms but felt as though each and every sinew of his body was tied to a heavy lead weight. Slowly she looked at him and wiped the beads of sweat dotting his brow from the exertion,

"The poison reversed the flow of blood from your muscles and it would have killed you if the healer had not come in time…He says you shall be better in a few days once your blood flow returns to normal…until then you must rest. The Queen of the East sent us to find you, had we been but a few minutes late you would have been dead like your men…foolish Gondorians, rushing into perilous territory."

"We…thought you…watched the borders."

She sighed heavily at his retort, offended by the insinuation that the Hamadjon did not defend their lands correctly.

"The lands close to the border have been recently flooded with pirates and brigands. Our messenger gave the news to the Lord of Umbar, naught but a few weeks hence."

"We…received no messenger."

"She was sent and told you to wait for our caravan to escort you…I do not lie!"

At this she stood and seemed to want to throw the bowl of water over him; her nostrils flamed with anger and though she was tall for a woman she seemed then to tower over him like a great monolith of stone. The sunlight outside glinted off the black steel of her axe and it shimmered red from the color of the tent's walls. Suddenly a voice came from behind her and said,

"Penye…"

This was seemingly her name as she turned to see the newest visitor. It was a tall person, lithe and limber, as they entered the tent bending at the waist as the entrance was low to the ground. When they stood they were tall yet the garment they wore did not reveal to Ciryaher the sex of the person within. The person appeared as a man yet knowing Hamadjon warriors it was not uncommon to mistake them for men, for they were mighty and strong as any other soldier. This new visitor had their face covered with a shawl and their eyes were heavily lined with black coal as well. Penye looked at the visitor and slowly putting the bowl aside went up to them whispering at a level that was inaudible to the King lying on the straw mattress.

Ciryaher did not know if this newest person was friendlier than the Hamadjon yet they seemed deferential to the captain, nodding when she spoke and though they met eye to eye the other seemed humble by comparison. She sighed when they finished speaking and then turned back toward the King,

"This is the healer…you have him to thank for the fact that you live. _He_ will bathe you."

With all the sternness of a general she left the tent and the fold of the tent opening closed with all the determination that it could. Shaking his head the healer came to where the king lay and picking up the bowl of water placed some herbs into it creating a perfumed mixture that smelled of sweet desert plants.

"You must forgive her; she takes great pride in her work and punishes herself too harshly for the raids that have occurred. Yet these pirates are like shadows, they appear in one place and disappear just as quickly, it was a miracle we were able to track them here."

As the king lay there the man gingerly began to remove his blood soaked tunic and untied the waist of his pants. The king coughed as his dry throat began to speak,

"Are you…her husband?"

The hooded and cloaked man nodded simply at this question,

"I am her betrothed…"

, Ciryaher looked this man over and noticed the long gentle curve of his sword as it dragged heavily from his belt and his garments were all in richly embroidered and meticulously mended sable. He was lightly armed it seemed and yet fully covered so that only his eyes and hands would show as was custom prior to Hamadjon marriages. Narmacil was married in this manner to his wife and he had to spend forty weeks covered from head to toe and was not allowed to be called by his name until he was joined with his wife. This Ciryaher judged was a strange custom, yet in his years in Khavul Anatse would only pat him on the hand and say,

"_Your customs are just as foreign to them…"_

It was not uncommon for Hamdjon husbands to be rather domestic, taking upon themselves the task of cooking and cleaning, as well as caring for the young and tending the gardens, at least for those Hamdjon who remained within Khavul. Yet this man was a warrior, wielding a blade as no other Hamadjon husband or man was allowed to do, which either meant that his wife was a great general or tribal leader or that he came from a people other than the Hamadjon. The man's deft hands were skilled and quick, rubbing oil and wiping the dirt and grime from the king's body; looking at the man he said, realizing that his mouth began to be of greater use for him, though his speech was still slurred and slow,

"The men who kidnapped me…they said they worked for the Queen."

"Those were probably lies…the pirates who roam near the borders often incite violence on either side of the border, causing chaos and dissent. Is it any reason that those living on both sides of our borders have so little trust in one another? Or why it is so easy to lose track of the real culprits when we are arguing amongst ourselves? Evil endures when allies who should be friends fight like little children."

Ciryaher smiled at the skillful mind of the man wiping his prone, naked form; perhaps if this man was born among Gondorian men he would have been a great statesman or captain. Suddenly his thoughts turned to his son, the Prince Alcarin and he could not stop a tear from being shed at the thought of him rotting in the desert sand; the man noticed this and said softly,

"Why do you cry? Have I said something to upset you?"

"No…You reminded me of my own son…The raiders…they killed him."

The man looked at the king with his kind veiled eyes, which shimmered hazel in the red hue of the tent,

"Begging your pardon my king…but your son lives."

"What?"

"Our scouts say that he ran from the attack at great speed and crossed your border, yet was lost as he had veered from the road and remained mired in the desert. Our people would have escorted him back and helped him save you but he ordered them to return him to Gondorian lands and so they did leaving him with the remnant of your guard."

Ciryaher did not know whether to laugh with joy or grimace in pain at the knowledge that his son did not wish to come back to save him. Though he disliked the young man's choice of friends and the way he lounged about the palace, a small yet great love developed between the two as they shared some joyful moments together. The Prince Alcarin, the king hoped, would eventually grow out of his prolonged adolescence and he had also hoped the trip to the East would spur him to put aside youthful pursuits. When the healer had finished washing him he redressed the King in clean linens, a white tunic and loose black pants, taken no doubt from his captor's store. As the day progressed, the healer was charged with the king's care and sat with him to feed him broth and soggy bread, the few bits of food he could eat with a numb and uncooperative jaw. The food revived him and by nightfall he was able to move his head about and speak more clearly.

Over the next few days the healer told him many things: that they were several days' journey South from the Harad Road and nearer to the perilous country where peoples still loyal to Khamul the Enemy resided. It seemed that the captors were headed to the southern lands to get the aid of their allies or ransom the King to the highest bidder. From there no doubt they would attempt to incite war between Gondor and Khavul, weakening either one. As he told him these things Ciryaher heard boisterous laughter coming from around the campfire,

"I have…never known Hamadjon to…laugh."

Seemingly smiling the man said,

"Then you have never truly known the Hamadjon…They are grim in battle and very serious in all matters, yet they are quick to laughter though slow and deliberate in making friends."

"Is that so?"

The man then shushed him as one of the Hamadjon began singing a battle song; though Ciryaher could not understand all of it, the man translated at different points in time. The song was about a great warrior queen who rode alongside the ocean shores of the Hamadjon homeland, she was descended from a great line of queens who did not fear to take up sword and spear. She fought off the shackles of her oppressors and formed a new nation by the shores of the sea. The queen was wise and skilled in battle and all who heard her battle cry came to her side and men fell before her in matters of sword and pen. This great queen fell in great battle when she was allied to the sea kings; they asked her to ride to war with the Great Darkness in Mordor and never did she come back. Yet it is said that her valiant blood lives on in every daughter they bear, the chieftains of the Hamadjon, and one day she will be reborn to ride the plains of the world and reclaim her people's lost homeland.

Ciryaher knew the reason the Hamdjon warrior sang that song; a long time ago, after Khamul was defeated and the treaty of the East was being codified, the chieftain of the Hamadjon, then Penethislea the mother of Athalanta the wife of Narmacil, asked for him to return the lands of their foremothers to them. The king, still young then by many standards did not wish to anger his lords and declined it, since then he always felt unsafe around the Hamadjon, even when he lived in a house guarded by their warriors. The healer sat in silence eating his meal and sopping up the juice of the meat with the flat bread of the eastern people and feeding it to the king.

"Do you believe them? That their foremothers once lived by the sea?"

"It is not for me to believe or prove the stories, it is for them to believe. They do carry with them some knowledge of sea craft and such ancient traditions are strange in a land where rivers often run dry, save Khavul and the yellow river in the North."

"I have looked at the records of my people and they make no mention of the Hamdjon…The only account that is written is an ancient writ of understanding with the last descendents of the House of Haleth that named Lebennin and Harondor their lands."

"The House of Haleth?"

, said the healer, his voice revealing that he was still a young man by comparison to the King.

"It is an ancient House of the Edain, the first men to cross the ancient Ered Luin and ally themselves with the elves…the…er…Kadjinai of the West. My people descend from two of the three houses, the Houses of Bëor and Hador, the People of Haleth remained behind as the Edain went to live on the island of Numenor…"

The king saw the confused look within the man's eyes as the strange words began to be told to him, the names of men long dead and lineages completely foreign to him.

"Forgive me…it is common for the men of Gondor to speak about their lineages without end."

"The Teacher says that a man who prizes his lineage can easily forget his children…yet a man who cherishes his children will ensure his lineage for eternity."

At this Ciryaher laughed as best as he could,

"That is a wise statement indeed. Who is this Teacher you speak of?"

"A wise man who has often been a great advisor to my people…They call him the Blue One. Yet I think your Gondorian merchants call him Alatar?"

Ciryaher's eyebrow pricked up as he heard the familiar name,

"Alatar still lives?"

"Yes, my king, as does his companion the one they call Pallando. They are great advisors in Khavul and wise men; yet they are greatly feared by many."

"Why are they feared?"

"They are ancient and, though many that lived during the great war have died, these men have not…Immortality and long life is the province of the Kadjinai and their descendents alone; they work great magic and many say they might be the Great Enemy in disguise."

"And what do you say?"

"I never lived under the Dark One, yet I think the Blue Ones are not he. They use their wisdom to help others and never have they spurned one who wishes to learn from them as long as it will be in service to others. From what my grandfather told me, the Dark One deceives and all aid that he gives is for his own benefit or the benefit of one over others."

"Then your grandfather is wise…Allatar and Pallando are good men, though I do not think they are fully men as you or I are."

"Are they Kadjinai?"

"No something different…More I think."

The healer seemed to be thinking on this and Ciryaher could almost hear the thoughts in his mind for his large bright eyes seemed to dance with each thought. The healer was clearly wise in his own right and thought about and questioned much, a trait Ciryaher seemed to miss when he was among some of his Gondorian advisors.

"Who are you? What people do you come from?"

He asked as he, with great effort moved his hand to gently touch the Healer's hand,

"That is not important…"

, this interruption came from the woman Penye, who stood framed by the firelight behind her.

"It is time for your rest King, the caravan arrives tomorrow and you need sleep ere we begin the journey to Khavul."

She was firm and resolute and the healer simply nodded and left the tent with only a quick goodnight to the king. The woman stared at the king lying at her feet and she said,

"Do not ask of him his name again King Hyarmendacil. Whatever you think of our customs it gives you no right to flout them in our presence. He is to be without name or people until he is joined to me…and I in turn shall know no touch of a man, lest it be him, until we are joined. I do not question or seek to undermine your crude barbaric notion of bridewealth or requesting the hand of a woman from her fatherkin…"

"He has a thinking mind General…He belongs in councils of great leaders, not serving a roaming band of warriors as a healer or cook. Here his mind goes to waste."

"I know the gifts he possesses King, more than you can fathom, or else I would not have chosen him. I trust him not to betray the covenant he has sworn to…it is you I do not trust."

With that she shut the tent flap and the silhouette of a guard appeared by the light of the fire. Ciryaher did not know then if the guard was there for his protection or not, and suddenly he felt as though he were a young man again, when he was the "prisoner/guest" of the Utashtegu.


	13. Journey Home

When he awoke Celebrin felt stiff and cold, which was a new feeling for him being an elf; he picked his face off the cold stone floor of the cavern home he lived in and still expected to have the cat hop on his lap, meowing to be fed. Yet just as quickly as the light of the sun broke into the cave, instantly warming it from the cold wet night, the realization and memory of that fateful night came to him. Celebrin shuddered as he remembered he gave succor, friendship and hospitality to Maglor the son of Feanor, the last living elf responsible for the kinslaying of Doriath, in which his parents died. Sighing heavily, his heart weighed by great sorrow, he moved about the cavern as though his feet were made of lead, cursing his foolishness. Just then a glint caught his eye and he looked upon the hearth to see his father's sword lying in the hearth covered in ash and soot; he stooped over the hearth and gently lifted the blade from its resting place, the steel shimmered bright silver in the morning light, untouched and unmarred by the flames. Treating it as a treasured relic, Celebrin sheathed the weapon and placed it gingerly by the opening of the cave; the cries of Durandir entered his ears and he found himself walking like one possessed to the stables where the horse resided. The black stallion was jumping and kicking wildly, the shouts and thunderous noises of the night before had worried him and with a mad look in his eyes the horse approached Celebrin and nuzzled him harshly, trying in his own way to make sure the elf that took care of him was unharmed.

Celebrin petted the horse upon the long nose and combed his fingers through the soft supple hair of the beast; sighing heavily he spoke at long last,

"Shhh shhhh, worry not my friend I am unharmed save only in my spirit. It is cruel, the fate that has followed me, I fled the West to escape the demons of the past and found all on my own a demon here in the East. I was a fool to think that I could outrun the sorrows I had once known; here greater sorrow found me than any I could ever have met back home…if indeed it still is my home. I have abandoned my people's ways Durandir, I lived the life of a mortal and forsook my own kin – I suppose I should not be surprised that I had to be harshly reminded of what I am…of who I am?"

The horse merely nuzzled him harder as his breath finally began to slow, Celebrin cleaned up around his home in the canyon walls but found himself lost in thought, as though each moment he spent in that cave was alien and foreign to him. Durandir rejoiced to run about the floor of the canyon as the bright light soaked up the last of the winter's rains. Spring had come again and Celebrin looked out upon the desert land and felt a yearning for something he had never before longed for, the smell of the sea. As he looked out upon the new budding of spring in the desert he felt himself longing at long last for the smell of the deep woods of Eriador, the touch of the grass in Imladris and trickle of the Brunien. He remembered hazily the smile of Celebrian's lips, the laughter from Amroth's deep chest, and even the gentle giggling of elf –maidens as they made their way through the fish markets in Mithlond. Celebrin yearned to be in those woods by the sea, where the very stones sang songs he had heard since childhood and the air was filled with the salted moisture that sent chills to the bones.

Before long Celebrin found himself gathering provisions from the store houses and placing them into his rucksack; he tied his sword to his belt and filled a quiver full of arrows as well as flint. Like a possessed man he moved without a clear thought in his mind, as though his entire body was acting on one great impulse that he could not stop. He ran down the slope that led to his cave with three water skins on his back and filled them in the renewed river, the bitterly cold water waking him up from his reverie. He walked slowly up to the stable and store house again measuring how much grain and water he would need for a journey of three weeks. Durandir followed him to the stable and whinnied in a sound that seemed to note confusion; seeing the rucksacks packed for a journey and his master's personal items lying upon the sandy ground the horse neighed loudly, the sound entering the elf's ears and making him stop his mad preparations. Celebrin looked sorrowfully at the horse he had raised since it was a colt; walking over to him he placed his hand beneath the massive jaw of the black steed and said in soft cooing words,

"I am sorry my friend, I do not know what has come over me…Perhaps…perhaps my journey is now at an end; I came into the East to…to find a way of escaping who I was, thinking I could remake myself and forget the sorrows of the past. But my mind, my mind will not let me forget and though my soul has healed somewhat, I think I have received what I can from my exile in the East…I have forgotten what it means to be elf…I am not mortal…I am not elf…I need to remember who and what I am, I believe it is time for me to go home."

Durandir whinnied and turned to the side, signaling to the elf that he was ready to have the packs tied to him; smiling weakly the elf shook his head,

"I am sorry my friend, you cannot come with me. Your home is here…I must find a way to become an elf again, and this I must do alone."

The horse, stubborn as ever presented his flank once again, this time moving closer to Celebrin and even picking up one of the waterskins in his mouth. Laughing Celebrin embraced the thick neck of the steed and sighed,

"So you wish to come with me then eh? Very well, perhaps you will like the rolling hills of Eriador and the mares of Imladris no doubt will love your foreign look."

Durandir neighed as Celebrin strapped the skins and rucksack to the horses neck and flank; he placed upon the strong slender back a thick blanket that he often used to lie on, when he slept upon the cold stone floor of the cave. The sword he tied to the rucksack and after throwing the remaining grains and dried fruits into the air at the mouth of the cave he bade farewell to his desert home. Durandir and he made their way to the mouth of the gorge, following the swift dark river, they came slowly to the delta where the river turned eastward to join the River Khavul and south past the Talath Anorui, the large desert plain which now stood upon the grave of Helcar, the sea of elven birth. They went slowly; now tha he was going home Celebrin could not bear to say farewell to the desert that had taken him in and tried him, giving him a reason to live again. In every red rock he saw the faces of Cidhrali and Tal-ano; in the dark rivulets of the winding water he saw the hairs of his daughter's head. Celebrin turned Eastward as though to follow the river, the journey home would be quickest and safest if he took the road to Khavul and then west to Gondor, perhaps even chartering a boat from Umbar up to Mithlond. He thought of his welcome if he were to approach from the west, having left Mithlond to the East, and then his bitter heart pained him. If he were to return he would have to see his foster father again. Though he missed Cirdan deeply he could not stop forgetting that it was that aged elf that had convinced his last true friend to leave by the Western road. Furthermore, he thought himself in no position and strength to venture to Khavul and seek to learn of what happened to Cidhrali, she would be over 70 by now, he thought to himself, perhaps dead and her children and grandchildren would not know him to be their grandfather.

Turning Westward, Celebrin decided to travel along the upper lip of the Talath Anorui and go through the northern marches, that wove through the Orocarni and into the old roads of the Eastern dwarves. These roads would no doubt take him to the Iron Hills and then on home from there. No other travelers had been through that land and many said it was a wasteland; yet Celebrin knew there to be ample water and food there, for he often saw great migrations of deer and birds coming from that land. Girding his strength he led Durandir Westward, keeping the burning sands of the Talath Anorui to the left and heading toward the setting sun. For three days he went forth, staying ever at the desert's burning margins, taking as little water a possible and ensuring Durandir had enough as well. They ate what vegetation grew upon the red rocky soil. The sun began to burn eagerly in the sky, yet something entered Celebrin's nose on that third day, the smell of lightning and thunder. He did not like the idea of being trapped out in the open when a desert storm came; knowing he would be much safer in the rocky foot hills of the Orocarni, where there might be some caves or shelter, he and Durandir ran Northward and up the slow sloping feet of the mountains. They had reached the places where large rocks stood when the storm came upon them from the East; the winds beat them mercilessly and the thunder and lightning were crashing, loud waves of sound and terror upon the rocky ground. As they ascended the mountains the hills became steeper, as though someone had turned the hills upon their side; large jutting rocks protruded out of the red ground and ravines, arroyos and winding cracks in the rock entered Celebrin's path, forcing them to wander through a maze of sharp rocks, deep ravines and blistering sand.

Durandir bucked and reared as the thunder and lightning frightened him, his eyes wide with terror and fear as Celebrin tried to lead him through the maze of rocks and gusty wind. His thighs burned as he tried desperately to stay on top of the steed as the wind and thunder flashed and whipped around him in a blind frenzy. Sand from the desert floor kicked up and became a thick haze of blistering blindness; a wall of impenetrable force so unrelenting it seemed to block out the light of the world. Celebrin felt Durandir beneath him heave and gasp as he ran forth into the rolling hills of stone and sand; the elf's hands grasped onto the dark sable mane as the storm kicked up and seemed to deliberately try to knock him off the horse.

"Ride forth Durandir! Have courage all is not yet lost!"

He shouted into the wind, hoping the horse would hear him and take heart. The wind seemed to answer back by bellowing and howling more violently; never before had Celebrin seen a storm, this violent, kick up so suddenly. The world around him became dark and grim and he could not see anywhere beyond the length of his arm; a great thunder crash filled the sky, Durandir reared up with a terrified cry, kicking at the wind around them. Celebrin, though felt his thighs give way he toppled to the ground landing upon in with painful deep thud that reverberated throughout his chest. He could barely stand when his senses returned to him; the wind still was circling around him and his hair flew in every direction further obscuring his view. He called out to the horse yet it seemed as though the black stallion's cries were so distant and growing fainter; the mighty wind beat against his back and forced him to his knees. He tried to swallow his saliva but felt the gritty slop of mud instead; coughing out he bent over shielding his mouth and nose from the onslaught of the storm. His heart beat loudly within him, answering in defiance to the torrential storm that battered against his skin, ripping and tearing his clothing. Raising his hands to the sky, palms outstretched in a gesture of adamant refusal, his lungs filled with an alien and ancient air, as though a hale and wise voice was about to speak using his voice.

"Cease thy blowing winds of the East. Shutter your boisterous howling. I am Uial Celebrin, son of Doriath, Herald of Celeborn, son of the Seventh house of the Teleri! Hear me winds of the Orocarni, hearken and be silent, for an Elda walks among you, in whose heart beats the blood of the Ancient kind!"

He shouted; at first the winds continued to blow and then he felt a small tingling upon his finger tips and his chest warmed as though he stood before a roaring fire. The heat traveled through his arms and burst out of his hands, and behold he became a being of light to the shadow world around him. His darkened skin glittered as bronze and his sable hair shimmered as the moonless sky; that which mortals call magic seemed now to course through his veins and fill him, making the elf, Celebrin a bulwark in a sea of chaos. The winds howled even louder in retort, yet they were pushed aside and no longer made to touch the elf Celebrin; they crashed against the rocks and broke the limbs of low lying shrubs yet they came no longer to plague Celebrin of Doriath. Just as he had felt when he entered the river, as though a great wave of time had flown over him, so now did he feel; penetrated by an ancient, unlooked for wisdom.

"Cease brother winds! Hear me and torment the world another day!"

, he whispered, and suddenly the winds stopped beating, the sand fell slightly to the earth like the falling of snow. Looking around him Celebrin saw a strange sight; whereas before the storm the world was dry and red as the desert sand, now he stood at the edge of a tall and dense forest. Great tall mountain pines, with dark timbers and bright green needles grew before him, mingled with light wooded elms and beeches, with dark broad leaves of summer's time. The mountains towered over him red and brilliant as they had never been before; ice could be seen on their spear like peaks, the brilliant white shimmering in multicolored sparks as the setting sun caught it. Celebrin stood in front of the wall of brown and green, mouth agape in a look of pure surprise, which is not often possible among elves as long lived as he. A cold wet wind came down from the tall mountain range and filled his lungs with the smell of pine, lavender and sage, as well as many other scents.

He looked this way and that, scanning the red earth at his feet, looking for the foot prints of Durandir, yet he found none. His elvish ears pricked up and heard no sound and his eyes saw no sight of the sable horse who had fled in terror at the onslaught of the storm. Celebrin looked at the sky and saw dark clouds beginning again to gather behind him, the storm had passed over him yet it may return as quickly as it came. He scanned the forest for signs of danger yet felt no one in his heart; in truth he felt as though he were once again stepping into the forest of Greenwood, yet it was older, far older than he had ever expected. The trees were thick and ancient, the smell of musky pine emanating from the red earth; not a bird was heard up above yet the silent slithering of snakes could be hear nearby. Celebrin knew that the red mountains often contained cougars yet knew not how far into the mountains he was; in any case he jumped on to a low hanging branch and pulled himself up toward the thicker branches as he did often with the mallorn in Lorien. He found a thick set of older limbs near the middle of the tree that would easily support his weight and give him a good view of the land below him. To the north, inward toward the forest, he saw nothing but the large expanse of green pine until it reached the upper roots of the mountain where it became bright red earth and rock again. To the east the forest curved as though it were a crescent, descending into hill country, beyond Celebrin could see the beginnings of the yellow Talath Anorui, yet it seemed so far away, too far away by his own calculations. To West the mountain rose up as they did in the North and deep chasmal gorges cut through the scarlet rock and a greta wind blew through them, howling and chanting some forgotten song of stone. And finally to his south Celebrin saw the hilly country he and Durandir had blundered through, blinded by the storm, yet curiously he could not find the road they had veered from, instead he saw the wind and dirt almost stationary, like a wall or border. It moved not from its place before him, seemingly guarding the land of trees in which he now stood.

"What fell work is this? And in whose land have I stumbled into that wishes this wood to be so well protected by an enchanted wall of wind and earth itself?"

, he thought to himself. He slowly descended the tree and found to his surprise the hoof prints of a horse made hastily and at great speed, bounding into the forest's darkness. Looking back the way he came he stooped down and picked up a handful of stones from the ground and marked south in the sky above him. Making a small cross of stones where he stood he began to follow the path the hooves took, his ears pricked up in case of any attack be it beast or man. Silently as he was able he tracked the horse prints that were made in soft sandy soil, they were erratic and panicked as they bounded this way and that into the fastness of the woods, dodging trees that grew in their way. Every few feet Celebrin would kneel upon one knee and place a small cross of stones again each time marking the direction in which he came. As he moved onward he noted that the sun began to sink low to the southwest, evening was fast approaching and he would need to find shelter or wood for a campfire, that is, if he could risk it. Suddenly he heard the strange sound of gurgling water only a few feet away; walking every so quietly he came to a small clearing surrounded by three trees, lying next to the furthest tree lay a water skin bag, flung aside with its stopped loosened and water that he had gathered two days prior pouring onto the red earth. He walked into the clearing and picked up the satchel, a look of curiosity upon his face. He knew he had tied it to the horse's bridle with an elvish knot designed never to be untied unless by the hands that made it. That is when he handled the strap and saw the undeniable evidence that it had been cut off. Yet this was not a marking made by scrap against hard bark or even against rock, the cut was clean and slanted, as though cut by a blade of stone.

PHWIFT!

The sound came so suddenly Celebrin did not have time to react, a sharp pain shot through his body and centered around his left leg. Grimacing in pain and grunting he looked down and saw a sharp black pointed arrow sticking out of his thigh. Staggering toward the darkness his mind racing with thoughts of how foolish he was to take the trap, he barely made it to the edge of the clearing when his vision became blurred and disorienting. The world turned upon its side and then swung back the way it came, his heart began racing and then slowing; the poison was quick, even against the blood of an elf. He fell to his knee, the pain in his thigh excruciating; as his vision narrowed he saw three dark figures, roughly the size of men approaching him.

"Tesha…"

, he said, before collapsing and the world became dark. His last word then was the Uteashtegu word for friend.


	14. Amid the Kadjinai

He was walking now, this much he was certain of that she would be angry with him; her voice shrill and demanding echoed through his ears,

"If you go within the walls of a city you shall die."

He knew she was lying, an idle threat mingled with veiled prophecy, she did not want to lose him, not to the others, the city-dwellers, yet he had to come back. He had to find a way back to _him_; how long had it been, months? Years? Decades? He could not know nor did he ever think he would; the mists parted before him as the bells of the evening tide tolled deep and sonorous. So close now he could smell the tart pang of the fish in the harbor and the salty brine of the churning water; Mithlond had never before looked so foreign to him. The tall buildings and homes, built like steps each level having an unobstructed view of the sea; terraces and step pyramids in the heavy mist. The cobble stone felt alien under his unshod feet, after so long of walking on forest ground he forgot how to walk upon paved roads. Yet it was not the road he was following, his goal lay ahead of him, the prow of a great stone ship peeking out from the sea of dense gray clouds. A blue flame burned brightly upon its prow…the Tower of Cirdan, Shipwright of Mithlond. _Would I even be welcomed back?_, he wondered, so uncouth and wild he was now; brambles filled his raven hair and his dark star-lit eyes pierced the shadows. He felt naked without the trees, so lost and vulnerable, as a new born foal staggers moments out of his mother's womb. His feet nearly tripped on themselves and he fell, worn and tired upon the gray stone steps between the silver lamps, which had been carved by the Noldorin long ago. Flameless their eerie amber light called his attention up the stepped path. The cypresses that now grew upon the sides of the path had grown some and now provided covering from the light drizzle, a covered walkway would need to be constructed, there was far too much rain in this land to not have one.

He raised his hand to the door's bronze knocker and lifted it preparing to knock and then he hesitated,

_I am a lonesome, wild thing, I do not belong in halls as grand as this. The woods are my hall, the river beds my bath, the earth and grass my bed and dinner table. So far have I fallen from the courtier, I am the wanderer, the vagabond, the worn and fearsome traveler that maidens, both man and elf, hide their purses from. I do not belong here_.

He turned on his foot and looked back to the east…_She will not take me back_, sighing he thought to himself, _so it has been done._ The creaking of the great oak doors surprised him and he spun on his heel and saw the vision before him; the goal of his long sojourn stood before him now, wreathed in golden light and warmth of hearth and smell of food. He wore a brilliant green robe, tassels upon his sleeve caught the light and glistened as though they had been sprinkled with dew, as the leaves of a willow. His golden brown hair was braided tightly and caught with silver clasps and he wore a coronet upon his brow, in the shape of a swan, _of course._ The elf at the door gasped and smiled, his green eyes lightening up and shining brightly through the misty veil, mouthing a name the traveler had not heard in what felt like millennia…Celebrin. They needed no words, the simple act of recognition was enough; tears welled upon Celebrin's cheeks as he fell into Alphindil's arms, exhausted he felt as though at long last he was home once more.

* * *

The intensity of the memory woke Celebrin so quickly he almost kicked wildly in his shudder of pain; now that his senses had returned to him he felt a great pain in his shoulders, as though they were pinned behind him and held a great weight. The world was still dark and he knew not whether he stood or lay upon the ground; his head was heavy and hard to maneuver on his dangling neck. He felt the tug of gravity upon his belly button and soon surmised that he was being carried like a hunted deer, his hands and feet tied to a thick branch of some kind. His captors did not speak, nor could he see them for a rag was tied around his eyes and a gag had been placed on his mouth; the rag smelled of sweat and tasted bitter, as though it had been dipped in herbs. The blindfold was taught across his face, his eyelashes curled and poked their gentle spines on the lids of his eyes and the blood in his head struggled and pulsed against the taught knot behind his skull. His senses reoriented but he could not tell how long they had been traveling or in what direction they were going, all the elf knew was that the air felt cooler where he was, as though he had ascended a high mountain and felt the bitter chill of night time.

"Ko'lowe que, nosto hwiru?"

, said a voice to his left, it was calm and smooth, not rough and uncouth. The tongue was alien and yet, somehow familiar; another voice came, this one was softer, almost feminine,

"Ti'ahine lele quent'a me"

Hushed whispers followed and soon he felt himself being carried again gravity pulling intermittently at his navel. The rush of blood forced his eyelids to close once more and weariness took him again. He tried not to lull back into sleep but the pain in his thigh and the blood in his head forced him to do otherwise.

* * *

He now was sitting in a grand hall, a warm wool blanket had been pulled around his shoulders and a warm plate of bread and cheese had been placed before him. The mead in his goblet shimmered as gold and the tang of alcohol swam in his head; it had been nearly 30 years since his last drink, it was not wise to take it but there was no fresh spring water in this season by the sea. Alphindil knelt in front of him, resting his arms upon his companion's knees, wondering, hoping in his eyes that the crude vision before him was not a dream or a shade. Celebrin's hair had been combed and his skin bathed with warm oils and water, he smelled like sage and rosemary; an ancient elf paced before him, deep in thought, he turned to his foster son and asked,

"So she was alive? Liniel and all her people?"

Celebrin heard the words his perada had said and yet it sounded like a foreign tongue to him; the language of the city-dwellers, the ones who had forsaken the old ways, was strange and never spoken among the travelers. In days long past, when Thingol was king, the green-elves had once spoken Sindarin proudly, yet when ruin came and Luthien was lost it became a cursed tongue. And so, those laiquendi who still followed the "old ways" spoke only the words of the woodland realm and the tongues of beasts and trees, forsaking the tongues of their kin, for fear it would bring ruin to them also. Cirdan looked intently in Celebrin's eyes, expecting an answer; clearing his throat the young ellon said,

"Yes…They are hidden, but they are there."

"Gil-galad should be told…as should Galadriel and Celeborn. We feared them lost."

"No Perada! They want only to be left alone!"

Cirdan looked at his foster-son with a look that gleaned discontent; his once pale skin was now dark and brazen and he bore the scars of hard living upon his face.

"The world has become darker and darker perion. The laiquendi must be all brought into the safety of our realms; they must be counted among the people! If they will not assent to be ruled by Gilgalad, then another elven king perhaps? Oropher in Greenwood or Celeborn, perhaps?"

Celebrin felt his wild heart begin to pace and speed; he came to rejoin his family not bring ruin to his mother's kin.

"No! They want to be left alone!"

The sudden rise in his voice startled him as he stood, the wool blanket fell from his shoulders and his toned muscled form stood before the Shipwright. Alphindil scooped up the blanket and enshrouded his friend, turning to Cirdan he said in a disapproving tone,

"Is it not enough my lord that your son has returned to you unharmed? That he has come back to us after we feared him lost or worse? Let these matters rest until the light of day, when food and liquor have done their work and rest has made us all more amiable."

Getting Celebrin to stand, Alphindil took him to the young elf's abandoned house, which stood to the south of the prow of Cirdan's hall. The house had been locked since Celebrin had departed yet it remained unchanged, a cabin really made of deep dark wood with a sloping moss covered roof. The bedroom was located in the back on the side that opened to the shore while the main door faced eastward. A bed had been made there, thick quilts and soft clothing had been laid out moments before and a bright hearth glowed warmly in the corner. Shutting the shipwright and the rest of the world outside, Alphindil led Celebrin to the bed and let him dress. Celebrin had lost weight since he had last been to this house and his night garments hung loosely upon his waist and shoulders. Alphindil stoked the fire and added another log to burn till day break. Celebrin meanwhile went under the covers, relishing in the warmth the bedding offered him; Alphindil bustled about the room like a chambermaid, talking mostly to himself,

"I should have gotten a new straw mattress but there will not be any for another few weeks; and your sheets should be washed, they are dusty and who knows what has lived in them since you left."

Celebrin grabbed his friend's wrist and looked up into his hazel green eyes,

"I'm cold…Alphindil…"

Alphindil moved to grab another quilt but his friend held him firmly,

"Lie with me…"

, he said, his gaze never moving from their intense stare at Alphindil; Celebrin's dark deep pools of obsidian night met Alphindil's amber-hued honey. Alphindil went red in the face,

"We have not done so since we were youths…it is not proper."

Celebrin said more determined this time,

"I have spent so long away from home and I fear that when I sleep the night will take me once more and I shall never again return…I need another living breathing beating heart beside me and I want it to be you, please Alphindil I beg of you, lie with me tonight!"

His voice becoming desperate, cracking and breaking as though by a great sorrow; Alphindil sighed, looking to the door. In the reddish glow of the hearth Celebrin's bronze skin shimmer darkly like polished teak wood, dark beside Alphindil's alabaster forearm. Seeing the fear in his friend's eyes he felt the same pangs of love and affection that he had when they were youths, bonding over the loss of their parents and homelands. Alphindil let his robe fall to the ground and for that night and many nights after he shared a bed with Celebrin, his arm reassuringly wrapped around Celebrin, lending him warmth and assurance that if he did indeed disappear into the night, he would not again be alone.

* * *

When Celebrin awoke again he was no longer hanging from a stick, he was now kneeling upon the floor, a large hearth fire burned behind him and the silence of the woods was no longer present. His face was wet and the gag that had been placed on him was removed, coughing Celebrin sat up spitting water onto the sandy floor. Many hundreds of hushed voices surrounded him, seemingly melting into the darkness and returning once more; a footstep came to his right and the cold sharpness of a stone-cut blade grazed his cheek. He gulped down a knot in his throat, preparing to be slaughtered then and there; yet the blade did not cut his throat, with a deft movement it cut the blindfold letting the amber glow of the fire light pierce his vision. At first he could not see anything, blurred figures dotted in and out of his line of vision; voices became louder and less coherent. A hollow banging sound reverberated in his ears and the voices came to a sudden hushed silence; blinking Celebrin allowed his tears to wash away the staleness caused by the blindfold and the blurred figures came now into focus. They were many and they were all shrouded and hidden, their faces showing only their lips, their hoods clasped tightly by dark thin fingers; Celebrin looked about him and saw that he was surrounded by hundreds of these people and they encircled him in a wide clearing. He no longer stood in woodland but atop a high rocky hill, dotted with think gnarled ancient trees, they looked as though they may be olives yet their fruit was long and pod-like and their leaves thin spears of gray and green. Gourds and what appeared to be drums stood before him, the source of the hollow thumping that brought all to silence. Behind them sat a trio of shrouded figures; these, because they were eye level with Celebrin, he could see their eyes. They were calm and yet anger burned beneath their depths, passive they looked upon him as one who was to die; these drummers stood before a strange and alien sight.

Behind them, upon a raised dais grew an assortment of brush and gnarled trees, woven through much time and effort into a throne. The high back fanned upwards and was crowned in a medley of dark green leaves, golden flowers, red trumpet blossoms upon a vine and shoots of gray reeds; the blossoms glittered as jewels with succulent moisture. Sitting upon this throne was the lone uncloaked figure; he was thickly built, as a hale warrior past his prime, his paunch resting regally on his thighs, firm and unmoving. His mighty fists held a long reed upon which was fastened a glittering gold spear head, his long white hair was tightly braided about with a diadem made of yellow-green palm, which had been painted and dyed with red pictures upon it. The thin wisps of hair that grew upon his forearms and legs were almost translucent, glistening only when they caught the light of the fire; his thick peppered beard encased a firm and stoic frown, deep in thought. The sitting figure wore a long tunic, embroidered with blue, gray and bright gold thread, wrapped with a thick jade studded leather belt; a great steel axe stood by his side and his hand clasped, firmly, a simple earthen goblet. The man gazed at Celebrin with bright gray eyes and Celebrin ascertained an ancient wisdom behind them; suddenly, a firm hand grasped him under his arm and force him to stand on his weak feet. The one who forced him to his feet had a silent authoritative expression upon his face; he wore simple garb, a loincloth and high boots, as well as a cape wrapped around his shoulders and clasped with a bamboo clasp and pin. He was lithe as Celebrin was, yet his skin was darker, like wet earth beside a river bed. He too was cloaked so that Celebrin saw nothing but his firm lips and smooth chin.

"Icha'atana b'ate?"

Celebrin heard the strange tongue spoken to him by the leader, the man upon the chair; it was the same tongue his captors used yet he did not know it. Instead he responded in Alamb-Harad,

"Idane koqitu Al-mewathi, anshe Alamb-heorad?"

"I am sorry, my host, do you speak Alamb Harad?"

The collective hissing took Celebrin aback, one from the crowd shouted,

"Morkwe! Morkwe! Tan iyircka haratuitla!"

Other shouts joined this one and they became more violent, Celebrin surmised "morkwe" was not a good word for each time someone called him that they made a cutting gesture with their hands across their throats. Others however remained seated and the man holding Celebrin's arm raised his hands calling all gathered there into silence. The leader upon the brush throne looked intently at the guard and said,

"Icha'atanwe kiquoloto quen-thik?"

The guard looked at Celebrin and forced him to his knees,

"Tanbanatant Edta!"

With sudden force the guard pulled Celebrin's hair back, revealing to all there the gentle leaf shaped point of the elf's ears. Another sound erupted amongst those gathered, they were gasps and hisses, exclamations of awe and ones of shock and even some laughter from what sounded like children. The man upon the throne for once showed a clear expression of shock and stood, causing all into silence; he looked beyond the circle to some unseen messenger and shouted,

"Kawilque El-Dinidar!"

Muffled voices again began to be uttered and the bearded man came down from the raised dais and stood before Celebrin, who by now had been forced to stand again. The bearded man asked Celebrin a question,

"Eru quenthi?"

The elf knew not how to respond but his expression clearly indicated he did not understand what was said to him. The bearded man pulled back Celebrin's hair more gently this time and let his fingers touch the point of the elf's ears and this elicited a boisterous laugh. He clapped his hands and shouted to the crowd,

"Kanwe! Kanwe, im lodotik tan banwewe ha!"

The crowd dispersed and became engrossed in busy preparations; the bearded man motioned for Celebrin to sit upon the floor before the hearth and within moments Celebrin was given a bowel of water to wash and a thick, strong wine that burned in the back of his throat. The bearded man, merely looked upon him with avid curiosity and his concentration was never broken save once.

At the approach of someone behind Celebrin the bearded man stood and smiled; Celebrin turned from where he sat and stood, ready to face whoever was brought in to assess him. His eyes fell upon a strange vision, dressed in simple garb stood a person roughly as tall as Celebrin. He had long straight black hair and a slender swan-like neck that was heavily decorated with turquoise necklaces; in his hands he held a red-dyed reed lute and his burning brown eyes looked upon Celebrin in wonder. Celebrin in turn gasped in surprise to see this person before him, it was as though he was looking upon the face of death itself. For standing before him was another like he, one who was born in the confines of Doriath, whose storied history was the stuff of legend and myth. The eyes were unmistakable, the neck and gentle musical fingers were uncannily familiar; before Celebrin stood the minstrel of Doriath, favored of Thingol himself, Daeron the Minstrel, whose voice in song none could match, not even among the Noldorin. He gazed upon Celebrin and said in wonderment,

"Elorn?"

And in turn Celebrin sighed,

"Ele…"


	15. The King's approach

Ciryaher did not know how long they had been traveling but it seemed like weeks, for the succession of hot days, which he spent in the tent and night traveling upon monotonous and ever-moving dunes, all blended together in one long amassment of time. Ciryaher tried to use the stars to guide his knowledge of what day it was but the stars this far south he had never learned and so could not tell what season or time it was while they traveled. The Hamadjon would usually break camp at sundown and travel while the earth was cool, riding in silence throughout the night, five guards on each side of the king, their spears and axes drawn and at the ready. Their caravan was small, the healer and king in the center, Penye the leader rode in front with an archer, another archer rode behind and seven other guards surrounded the king and healer, who also rode with a crescent shaped sword drawn.

The horse they had given Ciryaher had belonged to the Harad raiders that had kidnapped him and seemed already glad to be rid of its previous burden; Ciryaher noted the deep scars upon the beast's side from the use of spurs and whips. Ciryaher spoke in the elvish tongue to the creature and though it was foreign the horse appeared to understand him, taking to him as though the king had raised it himself. At the first rosy fingers of dawn in the horizon Penye instructed her guards to set up camp and in the midst of high dunes they would circle three large red tents around their horses. The king was sent to rest in one tent with the healer, though he would rather have stayed out in the sun to know what was being done while he hid in the tent. The healer spoke to him little during the day when Ciryaher could not sleep; they spoke of the lands they came across and what manner of people lived there. The healer seemed well traveled and knew the lay of the land as any messenger or scout would; he taught the king a few of the constellations but since they were instructed to keep quiet at night he could only describe them by drawing them in the sand the next day.

Eventually the sand dunes fell away to the rocky desert, reminiscent of the lands that surrounded Khavul; when Ciryaher looked to the sky he found familiar stars rotating around the sky, enough to tell him that the summer rainy season had just ended and they would walk into a land fertile and bustling with new life. As sunrise began to creep over the Eastern horizon on their twentieth day of journeying Penye stopped her caravan suddenly, yet refrained from giving them the signal to set up camp. She scowled and gave out a harrowing cry,

"Round the King! The air smells of crows!"

With sudden speed dark shades leapt from the shadows of the rocky terrain, in particular a high hill that rose to their left. Loud calls and hooting surrounded them as dark clothed brigands appeared out of the shadows and torches lit up around them casting long dark shadows over the caravan. As they flowed over the sides of the rocky hills, Penye could see they were over matched as she unlatched her great battle axe from its holster on her mare's side.

"Óthan dodheí to sunthi̱ma , tréchi griegora pros Boreia!"

, she shouted to the healer who nodded in compliance and unsheathed his crescent blade that shimmered bright in the new daylight. He grabbed hold of Ciryaher's arm and pulled the man onto his own horse, riding in the back.

"I can fight!"

The king shouted to the healer, but the young man said,

"You are in no condition to my king, and you are our precious cargo, no risk shall be taken with your life."

The Hamadjon woman sent out a shrill yelping cry and the others followed suit riding immensely hard through the center of the ambushing force, some hundred strong. Frightened by the fell cries and large axes, the heavily armed ambushers fell back, some hewn down as the Hamadjon burst through their rank. The healer gave a stern kick into his horse's flank and the black mare galloped with great speed surrounded by the Hamadjon. Yet the warriors and guard stayed behind ensuring that none of the ambushers gave chase or attempted to strike at the king. With unearthly speed the horse of the healer sped forth, kicking up cyclones of dirt and rocks and lighting its path with fire and dazzling clatters of hoof and earth. Other darkly dressed men in blackened steel armor leapt from the shadows trying to pull at the king, but the healer swung his sword in great delicate arcs, chopping limbs and heads with precision and skill. Ciryaher's heart beat wildly as the battle ensued; he glanced over his shoulder and saw many Hamadjon leap from their horses and throw themselves into the barrage of fell men, relishing in battle's din. Penye's battle axe sung horribly in the early dawn, already red and bloodstained. Then the king's heart fell, for the second time that he looked back he saw seven riders gaining speed upon them, the steeds they rode had eyes that glowed of red,

"They're gaining on us! Give me your bow!"

The healer let threw his long coarse bow back to the king and motioned to the quiver that slapped wildly on their horse's saddle.

"Do not miss I only have 8 of them!"

The king scoffed and pulled on arrow from the quiver; it gleamed bright white and the feathers were wide taken from the wings of an owl. Ciryaher turned from where he sat, grimacing in pain as his wounds stretched and reopened. Pulling the arrow back he let it fly, silently into the new dawn; a cry was heard and the sound of breaking bones beneath rushing hooves. He made to load another but the six remaining pursuers stopped dead in their tracks, so too did the healer. Ciryaher turned to see what caused the end of the chase and then his mouth fell agape. Before them stood a cavalry of many knights borne upon tall heavily armed steeds. They wore leather jerkins and their red steel helmets glistened coolly in the rising red dawn; their long black hair was pulled tightly behind their heads and pulled through a hole in the helmet making them appear tall and wild with manes of horses. Their faces were hidden by the tight enclosure of the helmet yet their fierce eyes shone like stars before them.

The knights wore plaited skirts of red and purple and upon their crescent shaped shields was emblazoned the sign of their Ancient Goddess, a labrys crossed with branches of myrtle and a fasces of arrows. These were the mighty knights of the Minoaea, a branch of the Hamadjon who were skilled in battle upon horseback and feared by many, even the riders of Gondor. Their captain, whose helmet was high and crested with black horse hair spoke words in their strange tongue and the line rode strong down the road, avoiding the healer and the king with only a slight movement of the reins, entering the fray behind them. The healer gave a cry to his horse and again they sped forth; Ciryaher marveled at the sight behind him, the Minoaea rode down the 6 pursuers and went forth into the battle beyond without breaking stride, blood spurting up into the sky like mist. Ciryaher held tightly onto the healer and closed his eyes in pain, the wound in his side had opened again and began to leak blood and his muscles strained to maintain his innards, yet they could not stop racing for the battle sounds were still too near behind them.

Ciryaher heard no more pursuing sounds, no cries of war fare and no clash of steel, for the battle had ended as soon as it had begun. The healer though kept speeding through the rocky wilderness trying to put as much distance between them, the battle and the enemy; Ciryaher no longer knew the extent of the territory that was ruled by the Council of the Seven Nations yet he had heard it had extended far south, even unto the dark forest of the Hindu-Mamuk. Ciryaher closed his eyes, hoping to block out the pain coming from his torn flank for it became sharper now, like someone digging into his side with a rough hand.

Ciryaher heard the soft sounds of water and felt splashes hit his face when at long last he opened his eyes; the healer had stopped in a narrow river valley between two large imposing hills. The hills were rocky and strewn with gnarled trees of the desert; the valley however was lush and green with reeds and tall grasses that stood at a man's shoulders. The healer seemed to be listening to the silence, a dense almost touchable silence that enveloped them both. The healer still had his sword drawn but held it perfectly still, gingerly balanced upon his hand ready to deliver death or be sheathed; suddenly a bright twitter of a nightingale pierced the darkness and was responded by another. Ciryaher imagined another hoard of dark shadows coming to at long last end his life but that was not to be. Emerging from the dusty grassland stood four lone figures each separated several feet apart from one another. One, a tall and heavily built woman bore a silver helm, the make of Gondor and Numenor of old, yet she wore a red battle skirt much akin to the Minoaea. Another wore a black tunic and dark breeches; he wore a gathering of owl feathers in his hair, a scout from the Ute-Ashtegu. The other two wore strange colored silks and one covered his face with a ritual head scarf worn often by a people among the Harad. The healer nodded for the king to step down from the horse and as he did a pair of strong yet gentle hands held him up,

"Be still now my friend…you are among friends…You are safe now my king."

The hale voice of Narmacil entered his ears and Ciryaher relaxed as the aged man's grip held him up while the healer dismounted, their aid had arrived.

* * *

Anatse paced the Citadal of the Stars her hand behind her back and worry tattooed upon her brow. The council chamber of the Seven Nations was the largest hall built by the hands of men, dwarfing even the great Citadel of Osgiliath and nothing would come to eclipse its glory save for the might and grandeur of Ecthelion in Minas Arnor which had not yet been built. It stood as a scarlet ruby in the desert land, a marvelous building that boasted seven levels of arches and palisades, upon which gardens and menageries blossomed and stood in the desert sun. The palisades rose to a grand blue dome crowned upon the citadel's head that shimmered as fresh spring water when it caught the light of the sun and moon. Within the main section of the citadel was a cavernous and richly decorated hall built in the round, surrounded by a forest of tall onyx and red marble columns, placed in spiraling concentric circles from the center, above which the dome hovered. The council chamber below the dome contained high steps of seats upon which the council members and delegates sat and debated matters of state. Surrounding the circular chamber were five stories of balconies, each with an unobstructed view of the chamber below and the intricate tile design, a tree whose roots and limbs formed one continuous and ever tangled web. The high seats of the chamber rose to five levels and surrounded a raised dais, upon which a lone speaker should stand facing the Council.

Anatse, though, wearing a light white gown, neatly embroidered with the delicate flower designs of her people paced nervously encircling the dais. Her wavy dark hair was kept from her face by an elegantly forged silver brooch, dotted with deep blue sapphires. As a former bearer of the mantle of Queen Ashthera she held considerable latitude and privileges; as now she occupied the chamber alone with no other council members present, which was forbidden by law. She gazed up into the high ceiling and looked upon the blue, silver and white gems that were embedded in the dark blue tile, creating the effect of a starry sky. The oculis in the center of the dome allowed the bright daylight to pierce the shadows and created a circle of illuminated space around the raised dais in the center of the room. She trembled then as she awaited the sound of horns, signaling the arrival of the aid that had been sent into the desert two weeks hence, following the escort of the Hamadjon. It had been sent to retrieve the King of Gondor, Ciryaher Hyarmendacil, and no news had been heard, either good or ill. Several council members, the Chieftain of the Hamadjon and the Prince from the Harad delegation had gone themselves to assist in the rescue.

"You pace as a woman in desperate need of guidance, Anatse. What troubles you?"

The hale and wise voice came from Pallando, a blue-garmented man that had come into the east over forty years ago, before Anatse was even born. And though much time had passed he had remained as aged and hale as he was when he first arrived, though none now lived who remembered his arrival, save Narmacil a Gondorian soldier who had become consort and husband to the recently deceased Chieftainess of the Hamadjon. Anatse smiled as he approached her and regained her composure as the proud and unnerved representative of the Ute-Ashtegu nation.

Since the time of her birth the Ute-Ashtegu had expanded to include diverse tribes, clans, and bands of people that were scattered across the Red Mountains; no longer were they ruled by independent chiefs and councils but now had a system of representatives, two from each tribe, clan and band. Three from this council were chosen to speak for the Ute-Ashtegu in the Council of the Seven Nations; Anatse had held this position for 27 years, ever since she abdicated her mantle of Queen Ashthera. She was well loved and highly regarded as a politician in Khavul yet often she felt alone, not allowed to roam freely in the lands of her ancestors for she spent most of her time within the walls of the garnet and amber city. She turned to the ancient wise man and said,

"The caravan has not yet arrived old father…And I merely am asking the spirits of my ancestors to give me guidance."

"Old spirits are hard to understand…I myself pray only to the Illuvatar that he may be merciful to us here in this desert."

"The god of the Gondorians is not my god Pallando, I was taught that the souls of the ancestors and the Earth Mother herself gives us the answers we seek. Man has made Illuvatar so that they do not have to learn how to read the answers which are already there to read."

"Is this any different than the Goddess of the Hamadjon or the spirits your ancestors worshipped in days long past?"

Anatse scoffed, she knew better than to argue theology with Pallando who the wisest Gondorians had said came from the Blessed Realm itself. They also said this Valinor existed beyond the edge of the world, but she did not take much stock in this belief for how could the realm of the Gods be beyond the world while they still resided in it. She, however, understood its political usefulness; if the men of Gondor needed to place the Realm of the Gods, this Valinor, beyond the sea from which they came then it served as a valuable way to claim superiority and bonded the men of Gondor to the sea that was their birthright. Anatse turned to Pallando and looked deep into his bright blue eyes and said,

"I awoke this morning and felt a great pain in my heart…I dreamt that my father, Cedlal, had passed beyond the veil of the world, you have recently come from the North have you seen him?"

"I did not see him my lady, nay these past decades no one has heard of Cedlal; most have assumed he died here in Khavul in the care of his only daughter."

, she shook her head.

"You know as well as I my father was of the Kadjinai, even as a child I knew him to be of the immortal kind…Where do they go? When they die the ones the Gondorians call, Eldar?"

Pallando's brow furrowed as he pondered answering this question; he looked into the eyes of the woman and though she numbered over 40 years of age the lines upon her face were fine and her hair still pitch black as a young maiden's. He had known her mother to be such a woman who aged well and lived a long life for her people and yet Pallando wondered at the starry night quality of Anatse's bright gray eyes and the bright luminescence of her hair. Sighing Pallando looked to the Dome of the Stars above them, the sapphire and silver lamps shimmering in the reflected light of the sun that streamed through the oculis in the center of the dome.

"The lore of the West says that the Eldar are tied to this world in more ways than the second born. From this they derive their immortal youth yet they can never leave it as mortal men do; it is said they go to the Halls of Mandos to await the possibility of rebirth."

Anatse was about to respond when a great horn call reverberated throughout the city; immediately her heart leapt and she strode out of the Hall the great bronze doors swinging easily and deftly as though they were great curtains rather than made of strong fire forged bronze. Before her stretched the rich city of Khavul, great monoliths of stone rose like mountains in a circle around the Council Chamber of the Seven Nations and yet were dwarfed in its shadow. The buildings of Khavul were made of the same red-orange brick that built the Citadel and in the light of the waning sun it made the city shimmer as amber and gold. The golden city was usually filled with the normal sounds of bustling merchants, children laughing and songs sung to pass the day of work away. Yet now all that could be heard was the echo of the horns and the music playing from the flowing fountains that dotted the city.

The perfectly aligned Avenue of the Queen, the Avenue of Inanna was lined along both sides with bright verdant fruit trees and statues of each Queen who had served the people of Khavul and the lands of the Seven Nations. The street cut through the city in a wide and long thoroughfare to the outer gates of the city passing several arches. In the distance she espied the violet banners of the Minoaea as they strode down the Queens' Avenue, four knights per row, in the midst of them was carried a litter piled high with blankets. Anatse grew pale at the tugging of her heart and she raced down the stairs as well as her skirts would allow her. She broke into a race beyond the main market and forum of Khavul which was located just outside the gardens of the Citadel, past the homes of the statesmen and into the residential dwellings of the people of Khavul who marveled to see the wise and beautiful Ute-Ashtegu woman running like the wind, her dark hair flowing like the waters of Khavul in the moonless light, shimmering with a cache of stars floating in their murky depths.

As she neared the outer gate she saw a large procession in rainment of blood red and brilliant violet, the banners of the Minoaean riders flowed proudly in the wind and their brazen trumpets filled the skies with sounds of victory. Behind them was drawn a litter made of soft reeds and topped with grasses and blankets; upon it lay a supine figure, covered in several cloaks with a face pale and darkly bearded. Without heeding the procession Anatse ran to the litter which stopped at her approach; leaning over to peer into the king's eyes her faint smile and cool tears fell upon his brow. His eyes fluttered open and he gazed upon her, the bright yellow sun framing her ageless visage and a warm smile came to his lips.

"I did not think I would live…until I saw your face again."

Returning his smile she caressed his face and said,

"You stubborn man…Must you be so close to death before you come see me?"

He lifted his head slightly and kissed her upon the cheek; seating herself beside him the procession continued and she ignored the looks of all that had gathered to watch the procession. Behind the litter rode the small company of the Hamadjon escort, as well as a battle-worn Penyelopa with the shrouded healer in tow, whose ever watchful eyes remained on the litter before him. Once the procession reached the Citadel of the Stars in the center of the city, Anatse ordered the guards to carry the King to the Hall of Healing beside the Khavul river. Turning to the crowd that had followed the procession she said in a loud voice,

"Let the trumpets ring and messengers be sent! Let bread be baked and meat be roasted! The King of Gondor is safe and in Khavul he shall find his healing!"

The crowd let out a cheer and began to separate in preparations for a feast. Anatse herself ascended the steps of the citadel and came before three standing figures; two were dressed in blue and bore gnarled staffs of desert wood and the third was small in stature, a woman of the Khand, yet she bore the raiment and crown of Queen Ashthera. This Queen of the East held considerable power over the Council that governed these lands and in Khavul her word was law. Her garment was the bright white of pearl and her crown made of swan feathers dotted with sapphires. The queen smiled and wryly said,

"Let it be known that Anatse Xidlalique of the Ute-Ashtegu has once and is always the Queen of the people…"

"Forgive my presumption, Queen of the Heavens and Earth…I spoke out of tongue."

The small regal woman, whose face was covered in white make-up, save for the red of her lips, lifted her hand and said,

"The people still follow you and all of Khavul rejoices in your wisdom. Who am I to question where their allegiance still lies?"

The Queen gave a gentle bow, a sign of respect among her people, and returned into the cool darkness of the Citadel that was her home until her term as Queen ended. The two Istari remained where they stood and the one called Alatar spoke,

"It is a wonder indeed, why Anatse Xidalique has never again been elected to the high office of Queen?…It suits her well enough."

There was a certain snideness in that remark and Anatse wanted nothing more than to slap the old man across the face.

"You know that the office of Queen shall be held by one woman for a brief time and never again thereafter. It is not for me to hold the scepter and crown of the Queen, my place is in the council, from there I shall guide and ensure the survival of my people."

"I meant no offense my lady…of course."

Alatar removed himself from the other two's presence. Pallando looked upon the woman for a brief moment and then followed after his companion a look of worry upon his brow. Anatse forced her fists to soften and she looked out at the city, cut from north to south through the center by the flowing might of Khavul, the river from which the amber city drew its name. In a near perfect cross the Avenue of Inanna, aligned with the star that is called Earendil in the west met at the citadel. The Citadel of the stars was literally and figuratively the cross roads of the east, for traders from Khand, Harad, Ayab-Mamuk, Hamadjon, Gondor and all others had to pass this way along their journeys. Messengers should be sent to Gondor to say that their King yet lives.

She decided then that she need to speak to her son…they had much to discuss before the king was well enough to meet him again.


	16. Amends must be paid

The young mortal fidgeted on the throne, his regally brilliant hair framed his face well enough and his sneer was almost convincing as a magnanimous smile. Alcarin, the prince of Gondor, sat upon his throne in the palace upon the Anduin, in the city of Osgiliath, feeling both elated and forlorn. His father, the King Hyarmendacil, had been found alive and taken to Khavul where he was awaiting a garrison of soldiers and emissaries to bring him back to the land of his people. The council of lords had established Alcarin as ruling regent until news of his father had arrived and up until a few days ago rumor had spread throughout the city that King Hyarmendacil was dead and they would hold a coronation for Alcarin soon. Yet any hopes for his own coronation were doomed when a messenger from Harad came announcing that the King had been found and was in Khavul in the company of the Queen of the East. Lords loyal to his father, who had vocally and publicy uttered apprehensions that the young man could rule Gondor adequately, praised the news and recommended the young man set out for his father at once. Yet his advisors, Lords Calamadril of Anfalas and Hadreth of Umbar, told him to wait a bit longer, see if the king indeed pulled through his injuries. Furthermore they advised he send notable emissaries and allies to the east rather than risk another of royal blood to be kidnapped by raiders. Prince Alcarin did so and sent messengers to all his allies; his father's dearest advisor and steward of Minas Arnor, Beleg jumped at the request to journey to the East to retrieve the king. Futhermore the Lord of the sea-elves in Edhellond had agreed to accompany him. The Lord Celeborn now stood inspecting the young Prince as he sat idly in the king's throne.

The young mortal princling had just requested Celeborn report back the military strength of the Eastern lands, using highly flattering words. Celeborn heard uneasiness in the young man's voice, as though he would not speak for himself but used another's rehearsed speech. In his dealings with Hyarmendacil he knew the King of Gondor to be wise and an excellent military mind, he wondered then how his very own son could not grasp the skill his father clearly possessed in abundance. The elf pulled back a stray silver hair behind his leaf point ear and sighed,

"No doubt your father's own scouts could tell you more, young Prince Alcarin. What's more, are not Khavul and the surrounding lands allies of Gondor and have treaties of peace signed?"

The boy upon the throne fidgeted more and said in a high pious tone,

"I trust not the dark men of the East…Too often they have fooled my father with their complacency. When I was running from their arrows I felt no peace between us…No, my Lord Celeborn I would rather be prepared in case their loyalties change again."

Celeborn would have said more yet the doors to the throne room opened and two figures entered at a brisk pace. The first was Beleg the strong middle-aged warrior who was the King's steward. He had a strange gait to his step from a displaced hip he acquired in battle that became more pronounced as he aged. The other walked tall with a black staff that held a pure milky white orb. Saruman the Istar had come to follow the Elven lord and human steward into the east and seek news of his kinsmen.

"My lord if we are to leave we must do so now the river will not wait for us and we should be in Umbar by sundown tomorrow."

Celeborn nodded and bid farewell to the Prince of Gondor, a nagging tug at his heart feeling something evil and treacherous growing in the city of Osgiliath.

* * *

When Ciryaher awoke he saw the blue of early dawn creep into his window; he had been living in the Citadel of the Stars for the past month or so, recuperating from his wounds. The healers knew their craft well and already the poison was gone from his body and the stitching had been removed to reveal a purple scar on his side. The sound of the morning chants gently woke him and he scanned the room around him. Terracotta walls glistened like gold in the rising sunlight and the white of his sheets shimmered as moonlight in the foggy haze of Arien's rising. The figure sleeping in the chair next to him never left his side and her soft snoring was music to his ears. Though Anatse had said she would not sleep beside him in his bed she spent every night sleeping in a settee padded with soft down filled pillows, tending to him as a nurse would. They kept conversation light and he never asked if she remarried and she never asked of his wife or son who lived in Gondor and was crowned prince of his father's realm. He longed to ask her what had come of young Cedladl, his son Uialasse, whom he had seen a few years prior as a young man of 17 years. He wondered if he had grandchildren in some rocky hillside in the northern lands beside the Orocarni; yet she betrayed no detail of this. He moved gingerly to stand and his movements awoke her; blinking her eyes and stretching like a cat she said,

"You should rest Cirya…You must look vigorous for when your caravan arrives."

Chuckling he walked to the window and pulled open the drapes,

"If they send a caravan at all…I would be happy even now to be forgotten by them and to live the rest of my days here in peace."

She smoothly stood and walked to where he was; taking her in his arms they both looked out at the city before them - glowing a bright golden red. The city opened before them and the smell of cooking meat and freshly baked bread filled their nostrils; for a brief moment she relaxed in his embrace, taking in the musk of him and remembering what it was like in the simplicity of their youth.

"And what would you do King Hyarmendacil…with no kingdom to rule?"

He looked into her soft gray eyes,

"I would raise horses, till the land, hunt for wild boar, nay even run errands as a page boy would, as long as I could sleep in your arms once more."

He bent to kiss her but she stepped back so deftly that he felt not rebuttal of his affections only as though it were a momentary delay and she separated them from their embrace,

"You mistake me for a woman who does not care if she shares a bed with a married man."

, she said this with no spite in her voice, only the wisdom that she spoke the truth and did not mean it to harm or barb. He sighed and spoke equally as matter of fact,

"I wish…I wish I was but a lowly knight when I met you, as Narmacil was, with no family or bloodline to make strong and endure with Numenorean blood… Please know Anatse…I never wanted _this_."

He motioned to the space between them and she sighed, wiping an errant tear from her eye,

"Not even Gods can change what has been done Cirya, I daresay not even your Illuvatar…I will leave you to bathe; the scouts told me this morning that your caravan should arrive by noon and I have preparations to make."

, she turned to leave him. He spoke absentmindedly,

"When might I see him Anatse?"

"When you are ready to call for him Cirya…"

, was all she replied and then she was gone.

* * *

As Celeborn approached the famed city of Khavul, his elf eyes could espy it from a great distance upon the Harad road already. Like a great ruby it arose out of the rocky desert - a veritable paradise. The green grasses that littered the river valley sprung new with fresh lavender, rosemary, sage and other desert flowers. The scent was intoxicating and filled him with memories of Doriath in the spring of the world, ere the sun rose from the West. Yet nothing in all his long years of life prepared him for the sight of this city; it was a city at the crossroads of several civilizations and stood as such. The gardens that filled the courtyards within were teeming with sweet smelling fruits and the people, well fed and joyous sang praises and songs of welcoming to the garrison of Gondor that had come to retrieve their king. He had expected a city at war or at most a paranoid collection of isolated nations but found instead an empire's capital as cohesive and functional as Gondor. Some in the garrison were unprepared and marveled at the many sights and sounds and smells; children and maidens would come up to them to give them flowers or gifts of embroidered robes and bunches of feathers. Some more brash soldiers would stoop down and kiss the maidens softly with a wide smile, the young women running back behind the line of guards giggling as little women often do. As they walked down the Avenue of the Queen, Celeborn saw a long line of Hamadjon standing shoulder to shoulder keeping a great deal of the crowd at the line of trees. They were stern in face and only a few marveled at him, who looked both young and ancient to their eyes.

The long pathway into the city's heart was strewn with flowers; bright pinks, yellows, lavenders and blues littered the ground before them and were crushed in fragrant sprays of color by their horses' hooves. The noon sun emblazoned the sky and the water from the hundreds of fountains sparkled as white and pure as silver. As they approached the city center Saruman gasped and sighed at the sight before them. The mountain like citadel rose before them slowly revealed as the city gates and large estates passed behind their procession into the main plaza. The Citadel was surrounded by a rich garden of flowers, trees and grassy spaces fed by a system of fountains and canals. The sound of falling water was as music after the weeks of traveling in the burning desert that surrounded this paradise. The steps to the doors of the citadel were also filled with delegates and representatives of the Seven Nations of the Red Mountain, the nations of the east.

The Harad stood tall and dark and were dressed in their richly embroidered bronze, red and silver garments, woven gold shimmered upon their cloaks and their dark curly beards were finely combed and clasped with golden ringlets. The Khand were dressed in fine silk robes of blue and green, with gold embroidery depicting flowers and birds. The slant of their eyes and dark straight black hair were wholly foreign to Celeborn who had not seen their like among the sons of Men whom he had met in all his long years. The different tribes of the Ute-Ashtegu stood in their various garb, some wearing high crowns made of feathers or precious stones; others were dressed in red cloaks with gold and bronze jewelry. Others wore simple linen that was stitched with flowing and vibrant flowers or other desert plants. The Chieftains of the Hamadjon stood beside them, some in the battle regalia and others wearing finely made leather jerkins with pleated skirts revealing their breeches underneath, each more heavily armed than the last. Their menfolk stood silently beside them in white linen garb, their beards neatly cut and their hair plaited behind their heads; each holding a shield or a ceremonial quiver of golden arrows. The Ayab-Mamuk wore blood red garments made of the finest Mumak wool which they bought from the Northern Mumakil traders in the farthest grazing lands north of the Ute-Ashtegu border. Ivory and bone, delicately carved adorned their ears, noses, wrists and ankles and their bright smiles glistened in contrast to their obsidian chocolate skin.

All these there were and many other diverse and ornate costumes, some with crowns tall and bold, others in more humble garb. Yet overall the sight was breathtaking; Celeborn marveled at the sounds of the different tongues entering his ears or the smiles and shades of skin that met his eyes. And then his gaze fell upon a small figure standing in the midst as part of the crowd but completely and utterly separate from it. She wore a set of queenly robes all made of gold thread that brilliantly cascaded an aurora onto the eyes of onlookers, for sewn into the garment were many bright and neatly cut jewels and diamonds. She covered her face with a sheer white veil and wore a tall crown upon her head, from which descended a sapphire blue head scarf that fell to her feet, dotted with silver stars. Her hands opened in a gesture of welcome and from her spot upon the stairs leading up to the Citadel her voice echoed throughout the city and the crowd fell silent, she spoke in the common tongue of the West and repeated her welcome in Alamb-Harad the language of commerce and trade in the East,

"Welcome honored guests, travelers from afar and lords of East and West, I Queen Ashthera, Queen of the heavens and the Earth, Mother of the Eastern people bid thee welcome! Come rest and enjoy the bounty of the river valley and our humble hospitality!"

Beleg spoke then from his seat upon his black steed, bearing with him the banner of the King of Gondor and the Lord of Osgiliath. His voice faltered a little as he spoke in Westron and another beside him translated it into Alamb-Harad,

"I thank thee Queen and noble ally, but please I must see that my King is safe and healing. Only then can I and my men enjoy your most gracious hospitality which is legend in the markets of Osgiliath."

Gently bowing her head the queen waved forth a woman dressed in a green gown made of fine soft linen, neatly stitched with flowering vines and scenes of the wilderness. She was regal in her own right and bore upon her a sash made of bright red and in her hair were braided silver clasps encrusted with turquoise, lapis lazuli and obsidian. She escorted a man dressed in fine white robes, leaning upon a walking stick, who was held up by a tall man whose face was covered by a head scarf. The King was the one dressed in fine white robes and he descended the stairs gingerly, periodically holding onto the young man's arm for balance.

"As you can see my friend, I am healthy enough to fight off all the armies of Mordor!"

, he shouted with such joy in his voice that all there clapped their hands together in exultation and his own soldiers laughed clanging their swords upon their shields. Celeborn for his part gazed upon the pair escorting the king slowly down the steps to his soldiers and devoted Lords. The woman's gray eyes were ageless and Celeborn wondered silently at how uniquely elvish they seemed to be for unlike most women of her age she had a fire of youth still burning within, her hair radiated in the sunlight though its hue was as black as a starry night. Celeborn followed her with his gaze and noted how familiar she was with holding the king by the arm, how comfortable he was with his arms around her and how he smiled when his eyes flitted upon her in passing.

It was then he surmised that eyes began to fall upon him and though his ears were covered his face still bore the light of the Sindar, dim as it was since he himself never saw the trees of Valinor save in his wife's mind or in the eyes of Melian the Maia. They perceived him to be ageless for though he was tall and as hale as a man in his forties, his eyes were ancient. He dismounted his horse and a few maidens and young men brought forth large bowels for the washing of hands and feet. The other guards and soldiers in the garrison eagerly washed their hands and faces, rejoicing in the coolness of the water.

The Istar Saruman looked about him, his eyes falling on all those whose raiment was blue, those he found amid the crowd bore staffs and numbered in diverse ages.

"They are acolytes Curunir, our students…"

Alatar's voice entered his ears and a pair of warm hands embraced him, the energy between them coursing through their bodies and rejoining them as Maiar once more. Pallando came next and embraced the white Istar as his companion had done.

"I feared so greatly for you two, when Mithrandir told me you two had survived and were living among resistance fighters I almost came running into the East myself."

"It would take more than a few of Gorthaur's minions to defeat us…And it would take Morgoth himself to do so now!"

, said Alatar, patting Saruman roughly on the back and handing to him a chalice filled with deep red wine. Pallando hushed him as a heavy darkness weighed upon them,

"Say not this and bring a curse upon all we have done here, Brother. Curunir, listen not to him he is too taken by his pride sometimes."

"And why should I not be? We came here into his most steadfast stronghold and have turned it into a paradise! His most loyal subjects are all but extinguished and this land has had peace unmarred for many years. Behold Curunir our acolytes who now study the skills of the Maiar, some have even been able to gain wisdom enough to perform feats you have not seen, here let me show you!"

Alatar walked away toward one of his pupils and was waving for him to join them. Pallando heaved a heavy sigh as the crowds of people began to prepare for the day's festivities; Saruman took a sip from his chalice and said,

"What troubles you Pallando? Is what Alatar says not true, is this not a paradise when before it was a hell?"

"Nay my friend it is…This land has blossomed in this age of peace, but he lets his head get too big. He thinks a small handful of mortal magicians can beat back the Nazgul of the dark one…"

"And you do not think so?"

"Mortals have always been quick students and eager to earn the craft they call magic…Yet they are not elves, they have not the patience nor the wisdom to ensure it cannot be misused…Remember you the mortals of Numenor and the wisdom the Evil one taught them."

"Yet you do not teach them with a heart of malice Pallando…Knowledge with good intent cannot be misused for it is in its nature good, is it not?"

Saruman smiled and patted Pallando on the shoulder turning to see a small bit of trickery a young acolyte had begun to conjure. Yet a nagging suspicion tugged at Pallando's heart, more so as he saw his other acolytes walking amid the crowd smiling that the common citizens would bow to them.

* * *

Celeborn for his part strolled about the common square, tasting of the foods brought before him and marveling at a troop of dancers moving to the beat of a wild drum, in perfect unison, their sable and gold garment flowing in the air like a dervish upon the desert sand. Yet ever his eyes scanned the crowds; he knew Celebrin to be dead, Mithrandir had said as much. Even so, that vain hope still pulsed in his heart and a single tear fell from his cheek, remembering the dutiful and obedient herald who had warmed the elf lord's heart many times over with his simple devotion, humor and love.

It was then that his eyes fell upon a small obelisk, no larger than a tall man it was made of bright white marble and lovingly adorned with a wreathe of woven moonflowers, white as the stars in the sky, with leaves dark and green. Upon it was carved a strangely familiar sickle shaped symbol and above this crude sickle was a device of three stars formed in an inverted triangle shape. The stars and sickle hovered above three reeds which crossed a branch of twisted cypress. Celeborn knew this device well for in his younger days this was the device and heraldry of the House of Uial, the humble family of the Herald of Galadhon and his sons. The three stars tied them to Cuivenen and the reed and cypress telling of his guarding of Aelin Uial, which bore the family's name. Silently he walked to the obelisk as one possessed; below the carved insignia lay a row of four lines of text, the first was an elegant twisted script seeming to flow from right to left; the one below it consisted of pictographs going up and down – using animals and elements of the desert as symbols. The third was alphabetic and shared some similarity to the letters of Numenor, of which Celeborn had faint memory, yet these were used to write another tongue and the symbols had much changed since the height of that fallen empire. The final line of text was written in the Tengwar used in Gondor and written in the common tongue of the west, it read:

"Here lies the Katchin Warrior, Cedlal,

War Chief of the Yute-Ashtek race

Father of Anatse Xidlalique, his most beloved daughter."

, the name he did not recognize nor the word Katchin, yet something in him understood that Celebrin was laid to rest in this honorable grave. The elf lord smiled and wiped a tear from his eye, taking that moment to honor his lost servant.

* * *

Ciryaher Hyarmendacil laughed as he was seated upon a raised dais to marvel at the performances before him; beside him sat Queen Ashthera and her retinue, the central council of the Seven Nations. To his left sat Anatse at his invitation and beside her was the High Cheiftain of the Hamadjon, whose name was Thiane and her father Narmacil, who's graying hair was as distinguished as the hale hands that gripped his fork. Beside them sat the general Penyelopa, Narmacil's youngest daughter, now revealed to be a mere girl of 18 and her betrothed the healer who had saved the King's life. Beleg came after him and his soldiers followed; in a great concave shape they all feasted and watched the dancers of Lilita-hadad, the singers of Mount Gehon, the magicians of Nem-haset and the story tellers of the Nevaje. Much drink was to be had and great joy coursed through the city like blood, filling it with life and laughter even to the city walls where guards of the Ute-ashtegu watched stoically as the sky grew darker and the stars of the East wheeled about led by the rise of Inanna, what in the west is called Earendil. The city then lit its amber lanterns and the streets were a glow with a soft golden light- from afar one saw it as a glowing blood red heart in the midst of the river valley colored with many flowers and grasses.

The king, now drunk with much liquor and merriment turned to the Queen Ashthera and said,

"Long years has it been since I enjoyed the splendor of your city or the hospitality of your land my Queen… You and your council have ruled this land well, much better than I or any Gondorian viceroy would ever have done."

The queen nodded softly, smiling gently and said,

"I thank thee, King Hyarmendacil, we rule as equals in this land, and a land not held by slavery or inequity shall flourish for many long years and not be toppled by any strife, lest it come from without."

The king chuckled and said,

"And the wealth has no doubt helped…for who would wish to cause civil war if all are fed and live as kings…"

He said the last part and clinked his goblet heavily with hers spilling the corn beer all over the table's white satin tableclothes, Anatse whispered to him,

"You have drunken much my lord…Enjoy the festivities and wait for morning to say such matters of state…"

Yet the Queen Ashthera raised her hand and sternly said,

"Anatse of the Ute-Ashtegu, let the king speak his heart. I will have no one silenced in my presence. Gondor is wealthy enough to have such peace…Do not your own people love you so, for I have seen the devotion your merchants give you and your soldiers besides…"

The king nodded his head,

"Yes, yes, admiration helps but it takes respect and nobility to be seen as a great leader. Here many hands may help to hold up the nation, but the life of a solitary ruler is lonely."

"Yet surely your lords and sons give you some comfort and aid to ease your burden my lord?"

This came from the King of the Ayab-Mamuk who sat beside his Harad wife next to the queen. It was widely rumored that this woman would be the next best candidate for the mantle of Queen Ashthera and so she was brought deep into the Queen's retinue to serve her and learn the ways of the Queen.

The king nodded yet again but his ruddy face showed deep thought and sorrow,

"Lords can have their loyalty tested or other matters take their focus and sons…sons can disappoint. If I could learn to rule by council as you do then Gondor would rise as another Jewel in Middle-Earth. I pray, my Queen, if you would grant me a small indulgence…"

Anatse now grew pale and her mind raced, she fought two sides of her mind, one which took joy in seeing the drunken king of Gondor laying all his mind at the feet of Queen Ashthera, the other wished he became silent once more and reserved some semblance of his dignity. She turned to see the Queen lean into the King of Gondor and then stand raising her hands, effectively ceasing the celebration as a wave of silence fell upon the crowd before the citadel.

"People of Khavul…My friend, the King of Gondor has made a request to speak before you tonight, heed his words and show him the respect he has earned in his faithful friendship with this land."

Ciryaher stood and his eyes fell upon Penyelopa and her betrothed and then they scanned the crowd, looking for a familiar youthful face.

"My friends…I come before you a humbled and chastised man. I thought from my throne in Osgiliath that this nation was nothing more than when I left it. A crude and loose confederation of tribes, honorable allies but nothing to match the might and order of Gondor - How wrong I was to misjudge you! Now I have been saved by you and your people twice, the first by the Ute-Ashtegu in my first childish forays into the desert and secondly by the might and valor of the Hamadjon! And in this I am eternally grateful…yet to the one who I most am indebted to is this healer…"

He turned then and gestured to the young masked man seated beside the general of the Hamadjon. The young man straightened his back and his eyes betrayed no joy or nervousness, no anxiety nor embarrassment. He set down his goblet of mead and Penyelopa stood at this, taking her place behind him placing her hands upon his shoulders, her ruddy face smiling from her inebriated joy and pride. All eyes fell upon him and then followed once more to the King who began to approach him,

"You healer, brought me back from death. I never found a more noble, wise soul or honorable man in all my years…please stand before me now."

The young man looked at his betrothed and then when she gave a slight nod he stood, not much taller than she they both held the same body frame, lithe and still leanly muscular. Celeborn marked how tall he was though, taller even than Ciryaher and most of the Numenoreans. This was not noticed before, for he had slouched and held himself humbly before public eyes, almost to the point of being ignored. The healer came from where he sat and stood before the King, bowing in a sign of respect; however, the King of Gondor held him from doing so and embraced the young man warmly as though they were great friends. Parting then the king stood back and with his joyful voice said,

"Come now healer… Tell me your desire and it is yours as much as the King of Gondor might give…for your skills and honor ought to be rewarded greatly."

The healer was silent at first and all Khavul with him, each ear straining to catch the words that would soon come from his mouth. Then his voice came out, melodious and yet strong as the sound of cool summer rain,

"My king has nothing that I would desire, nor can he give me what my heart most yearns to have…Yet if you insist I name a reward for doing my duty then I have but one that pulls at my heart…"

The king smiled and nodded,

"Name it then…"

"That I should one day see the heights of Osgiliath and the lands of Gondor; for my heart has yearned to see the land of my father's birth in its fullness. And perhaps…if you will it…the honor of being named a citizen of Gondor and Khavul."

The king laughed at this, his mind swimming with wine and beer and his smile wide from ear to ear. He looked about him and said,

"So little a prize for so great a duty you have given. Then it shall be yours! Come with me to Gondor and I shall treat thee as a visiting king, nay even as a prince of the realm itself and you shall join me as a dear friend and stay in the palace of the King that rests upon the River Anduin…As for your citizenship, that too I might grant, were I to know your father's name or your own? Then I might find him and give you also his land, title and wealth if he no longer lives. Come tell me your name young man and reveal your face to me so that I may know my friend to whom I owe so great a debt…"

The young man looked to the Hamadjon general and she nodded seating herself in a calm and reposed manner; he then looked to Anatse and she lowered her eyes giving her assent. The healer removed his head scarf slowly rolling the black satin fabric first from around the crown of his head, then down his smooth chin and finally around his neck and mouth revealing a handsome youthful face with stern and vibrant eyes of charcoal. His face was darkened as wet clay and his soft flowing hair of obsidian glimmered in the starlight. He knelt low before the king of Gondor with the gracefulness of a dancer and many stone necklaces dangled and clinked as he moved, sounding like the patters of rain upon a tin roof. The King watched as the scarf was removed from the young man's face and his face grew pale as a corpse, his smile turning into a surprised frown as the young man spoke in a voice that betrayed no emotion,

"I am called Cedladl Uialasse of the Ute-Ashtegu, betrothed to Penyelopa, daughter of Athalantia and Narmacil. I am son of Anatse Xidlalique of the Ute-Ashtegu and Ciryaher son of Ciryandir…whose title I dare not say unless he himself give it to me."

A collective gasp went through the crowd, Beleg the king's steward made to step forward, not entirely sure how to react to a man of the East, a barbarian by all accounts claiming kinship with the King of Gondor. Celeborn watched with anticipation, he knew mortals to be more fickle in their relations than elves and not as honorable at their marriage vows. Yet this young man was several years younger than Alcarin the prince who now sat in his father's chair which did not bode well for the king - either he was faithless with his wife, the Queen, or had fathered the child during the war, the elf lord could not say. The Istari also seemed to hold back their words thinking of what was to certainly come. The King stood silent for a long time and with his hands beckoned the young man to stand, tears streaming down his face,

"You are your mother's child…indeed and your father's too for only a Prince of Gondor would have done so to right a wrong. And so many wrongs have I committed against you and your mother, who was and is my first wife…Faithless I left you in the East, I kept myself from you though every bone in my body yearned to know your fate."

, he embraced the young man, a smile beginning to grow, and then he removed a ring from his finger and put it on the young man's left hand saying,

"Thus now I recognize you as I did when you were but a babe, I give you all that I can, my son, though you deserve more. Stand now as Uialasse, son of Ciryaher, Lord of Osgiliath and King of Gondor and all her realms."

, turning to the garrison of Gondorian soldiers who stood behind Beleg he said,

"Before my kinsmen I name thee as I did when you were born, Prince Uialasse, my second son! Beleg come forth and honor your prince and my heir!"

The soldiers of Gondor approached and without missing a beat bowed on one knee to the young man who looked more ill at ease than he had before. Immediately the crowd began to clap their hands and shouts of joy entered the forum before the citadel. Celeborn sighed heavily and shook his head, what foresight he had was dark now as he gazed upon the young man who went from a simple healer to a prince of Gondor in the mere span of a few seconds. His eyes then went to the woman who had escorted the King all night; she immediately ran to the young man and embraced him, her tears flowing as freely as were his. For her part Anatse was filled with many different emotions, fear at the new path her son had chosen for himself, for now the Prince Alcarin had a rival to his father's throne and she had heard him to be a ruthless young man from reports from the Harad merchants. She also felt joy for she knew in her heart that her son longed to know the father he had been denied for so many years and now to be recognized in public she felt him shaking with joy as a child. And she also felt sorrowful, for he would become a citizen of Gondor and no longer of her own people; this was his choice and she would lose once more her family to Gondor and the men of the West.

Ciryaher turned to the woman beside him and took Anatse's in his arms, in the clamor of the crowd he said to her in a whisper,

"And you, woman, whom I have wronged so much more than he…Wilt thou now come to Gondor and be my queen? For the one who now sits upon that throne cannot hold your veil, nor the hem of your skirts, nor tie your sandals for she is unworthy in my heart and I would rather have my equal upon the throne. I love you still Anatse…do you love me too?"

Anatse looked into his and she said,

"I never ceased loving you Cirya…But I cannot be your queen…for my people and my own self I must stay and remain forever Anatse of the Ute-Ashtegu."

With that she kissed him gently and removed herself to her quarters for the rest of the night, filled with joy and sorrow.


	17. Kinsmen reunited

Celebrin stood motionless for what seemed like forever; the face had darkened some and the lines on his face were of joy, no longer pining or unrequited love that so melodramatically marred his face from day to day. Yet still here stood Daeron the minstrel of Doriath in the Orocarni of the East amid a foreign and strange people. It was not until Daeron embraced him that he felt his senses return and shaking he heard Daeron relate to the chieftain something in their foreign tongue.

"Kadwanaa itsu nem-hadr"

The chieftain nodded joyously and motioned for them to speak behind the great throne made of living trees. Daeron took him behind the throne and still smiling embraced Celebrin once more speaking in clear and ancient Doriathic Sindarin.

"How did you come here Elorn! I thought myself lost to my kin forever, thank Elbereth that you have found me once more!"

Celebrin coughed and spoke in a slow methodical voice,

"Forgive me Master Daeron…I am speechless, but I must say…I am not Elorn."

"Surely you must be, that face I would recognize anywhere…Unless it be. Of course! Your hazel eyes how could I have missed those! Your father's were sea blue but your mothers deep black as the night sky. Is it indeed you young Celebrin? All grown up."

Celebrin felt a rush of joy as he heard the old noble Sindarin tongue coming out of Daeron's mouth, it still had that same musicality to it that sounded like falling water in a marble fountain. Daeron motioned for him to sit on a rock nearby and never taking his hand away from the young elf's he began to barrage him with questions.

"How long has it been since last we spoke? Tell me how goes my King and Queen, and your parents surely they must have remembered me and sent you to find me…Always a clever lad at hide and seek I remember that well, Nellas always hated the fact that you found her everytime she hid!"

He laughed and spoke in quicker succession but before he could say another word Celebrin raised his hand and gave a worn smile,

"Forgive me…but…How…We thought you dead or lost."

Was all that could come from his mouth and Daeron winked at him the way he used to when he held music lessons on the hill top of Menegroth.

"Ai indeed it would seem that way. Long I wandered and long I walked, a shade of the world heard only in the distant echoes of some forgotten cave. I journeyed eastward until I found the other side of the sea, where the sun greeted the earth after her long sojourn beneath the land. I became as a shade, a memory of sorrow, filling the air with my sorrowful song. The mortals I encountered thought me a ghost, a spirit that brought sadness and so they banished me, chasing me until I came here…to the red mountains. I had heard that the Orocarni still stood but never before beheld their grandeur; even here though I walked as a shade, invisible to all save for the sound of my harrowing song, of my broken heart. None saw me, none marked my coming or my passing; the mortals were too dull to see me until at long last I came here and met…her."

Daeron's love-filled eyes fell upon a woman who was busy rolling what appeared to be dough and who laughed brazenly, a laugh with no music to it at all. Celebrin looked at the woman and then at Daeron; the minstrel came back to his story,

"She was singing in a toneless, horrid way but somehow her voice brought me back to myself; the dissonance that erupted from her voice was filled with a wild abandon and I fell in love because for once it was happiness, true, true happiness. I became whole again, no longer a shade; they brought me before their king and I have been here ever since."

Celebrin looked about them at the busy people who seemed to come out of nowhere to prepare a feast,

"But what are they?"

"Quendi!"

Daeron said, incredulously, shouting and showing Celebrin the truth of it all. Indeed though their skin was dark and faces strange the leaf points to their ears were unmistakable and in their eyes was that same litter of starlight that Celebrin had inherited from his mother.

"Here they call themselves Kindi and there are many other tribes besides them, yet they are the descendents of the Avari, those unwilling to enter the West, who wished only to remain beside the pools of Cuivienen. Dark they are for they never beheld the light of Aman in any form and have long lived in these desert lands beneath the burning sun."

"Are there none among them who remember the elder days…who remember Thingol when he was Elwë?"

Daeron lifted his brow in an inquisitive manner and said,

"Many hardships have come upon these people and their elders are few. For this tribe only two remain, Kanë, the bearded chieftain, you see before you is the first and eldest, last survivor of the generation born by the waters of Cuivienen and the other…stands apart."

Daeron's voice fell to a whisper and he became silent, as though he recalled this elf's name in reverent silence. Celebrin felt his head rush with all new sensations and he whispered as the answer to his question dawned upon him,

"They are the Kadjinai!"

Daeron sighed and nodded,

"The mortals of the outer lands have called them this and in elder times they had dealings with the second race, but no longer. Mortals are no longer allowed to enter this land, lest they be put to death…the reason why they do not tell me since I am an outsider and have not passed the test."

Daeron's face became dark as though a brooding shadow fell upon him, then shaking off his reverie he smiled once more and the music returned to his voice. He clapped Celebrin upon the shoulders and said,

"So what age are you now young Celebrin? Two thousand years if you are a day older, come tell me about my kinsfolk and the land of Doriath in this age?"

Celebrin looked into Daeron's eager eyes and he pitied him, Daeron had long disappeared before the Silmaril ever entered Thingol's realm and he knew it only to be a land of peace and safety amid the tumults of war and destruction that surrounded it. Sighing heavily Celebrin said,

"I fear to ruin the festive mood, I have not the heart to tell you the truth…"

Daeron's face went pale and he placed a gentle hand upon Celebrin's knee,

"Tell me now or tell me later…Kanë wishes for you to tell him your entire tale and I shall hear it before long."

Celebrin nodded and spoke,

"When you left, Doriath was still a land of peace…"

And he continued, he spoke of the Silmaril and the quest of Beren and Luthien, for he knew Daeron would wish to know what happened to his beloved. He spoke of the death of Thingol, the leaving of Melian and the sack of the Hidden Kingdom by the Dwarves. Then he spoke of Dior, child of Luthien who was second king of Doriath and Menegroth and told the sorrowful tale of the destruction of the Sindarin kingdom at the hands of the Feanorion. He spoke of his parents' deaths and the flight to Avernien, where Cirdan gave them shelter; he spoke of the third Kinslaying, of the attack upon Avernien and the loss of the Silmaril of Luthien and Beren when Elwing leapt into the sea. He then recounted the long years of his own journey from the founding of Mithlond to the wars of the Ring and the breaking of the world at the fall of Numenor. The night seemed to pass over them as he told him all from his long memory, he had no perception of day or night but knew that he ate and bathed at some point for when he finished his tale at the ending of the third age and the Great War of the Last Alliance he grew weary and his head dizzy with exhaustion.

Daeron looked at him as one stunned and grew silent for a long time; Celebrin himself became sleepy and closed his eyes and felt the heat that had accumulated behind his lids and for brief moment, ere sleep took him, felt the coolness of his own tears drip down his cheeks. When he awoke again evening's light played upon the redness of the mountains and Daeron again had returned to him, his eyes eager to continue the story, though now he had many questions of things Celebrin had not mentioned. And so they spent that whole night with Celebrin telling him of the destruction of Beleriand and the forging of the Rings of Power. He spoke of the land of Numenor of which he knew little and the Last Battle before the feet of Orodruin of which he wished he knew less. He spoke of the lands to the West, of Thranduil's realm and Imladris, he spoke of Celebrian and once more felt warmth in his breast as he remembered her smile and kindness. He spoke of the beginnings of the Third age and the rounding of the world and how at long last he came to be in the east, leaving out his marriage to Cidhrali and his daughter Anatse, for fear of what might come to pass should he tell them he killed some of their kin unwittingly.

Daeron took in all this and grew silent once more, looking to the earth as sleep once more took Celebrin and the fingers of dawn crept over the eastern sky. When Celebrin awoke he was greeted by the sizzling sound of freshly cooked meat and the smell of strong wine; his eyes flittered open and he saw a smiling child figure looking at him from above holding with both hands a large earthenware plate. The dark skinned elf smiled widely and his eyes grew wide in amazement as he placed the plate softly upon the ground, before running off into the surrounding trees. Celebrin had been left in the clearing, lying beside the hearth where he spoke with Daeron of the comings and goings of Middle Earth during the years since he last saw him. Yet now Daeron was nowhere to be found; the clearing was empty and the fire long since extinguished. Celebrin took up the plate and began to eat, relishing and moaning in joy at the taste of the flesh that was brought to him. He had not eaten it seemed in several days and his stomach yearned for sustenance; the wine was strong and sweet and when he had finished this part of the meal he looked down and another plate had already been placed before him, now filled with various fruits and vegetables that grew wild. Who had placed it there he did not know for they were no doubt silent and skilled at remaining unseen. He took up this plate and began to eat once more; when he set this down a cup of fresh spring water had been laid where he had last put his other plate. He ate and ate, still not seeing his hosts or any sign of them, yet he could not shake from his mind the thought that he was being watched. The food and the wine made him sleepy once more and the heat of the day dulled his senses so that once more he fell into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

When he awoke he felt the humming and buzzing of several minds close to him and he sat up with a start; he once more was surrounded by dark faces, though now they were uncloaked and some even were smiling. Daeron sat cross-legged by his side and the Chieftain, whom Daeron had called Kanë, was sitting before him his face illuminated by the fire. One of his captors sat behind him, his smooth youthful face inquisitive and his bright gray eyes brilliantly contrasted against the soft brown of his visage and the straight black hair that was tied and braided behind his ears. Celebrin sat up and all eyes seemed to be on him; he turned to Daeron whose calm expressionless face looked at him and said,

"I have told them all you have told me, of their kin in the West. They have become enthralled and wish to ask you some questions of their own."

Celebrin nervously nodded and looked to the Chieftain who spoke his questions to Daeron, who in turn translated them for Celebrin and vice-versa. He asked if indeed Elwe Singollo was dead and if all his lineage now remained only in this Elrond who was born of man and elf. The chieftain asked also how Thingol came to be called king and what matter of being Melian was. He asked of Cirdan and how he looked and to whom he was related and of all manner of things till the sun began to rise over the Eastern sky and the dark starry night blossomed anew with violet, periwinkle and sapphire. One by one the figures around him began to recede, disappearing into the shades of the trees and as Arien rose over head all that were left were Celebrin, Daeron, the Chieftain Kanë and the other elf, one of his captors whom had been introduced as Koirün. Then the chieftain excused himself and disappeared into the shades of the thickly woven canopy leaving the Sindar alone in the clearing. Celebrin looked about them and turning to Daeron asked,

"Where do they go, not once have I seen them out during the day save for brief moments."

"Alas my friend I fear that is a mystery that I cannot explain, only that in all my years with them only a few seem born with the resilience to withstand Arien and her rays but they only do so at need."

"But why?"

"They are…Dark Elves, Celebrin. They have no love for the sun and respect her only in that she sends the orc-kind away and they are safe while they sleep in their homes beneath the roots of the trees."

"There are orcs here?"

Celebrin turned this way and that as though he expected to be ambushed then and there,

"You have much to learn here my young kinsman…but for now Kanë has given me leave to take you to my home for he does not think you are an orc since you can withstand the light of the sun. There shall you reside and might walk freely within the borders of this land… Koirün shall be your guide, he speaks our tongue."

"He has learned this from you?"

"I should hope so…he is my son."

Celebrin was taken aback and Daeron laughed at this before helping him to his feet and guiding him to a gnarled old pine at the base of which was a large stone. Daeron whistled a small tune and immediately the rock rolled to the side, resting as it were on hinges, easily opened from within but immovable from without. Daeron led the younger elf into the darkness of the hole and beneath ground Celebrin saw a humble abode, carved it seemed under the deep succulent roots of the pine above them. Celebrin was not tall when compared to the other Eldar yet even here he had to stoop low as he beheld all before him. The largest room was immediately below the roots of the tree, from which hung a small lamp, it was a gathering place and there a small stone table rested low to the ground. This large chamber was open to several others than surrounded it, one a kitchen and the other three bedchambers. Daeron's wife who was called Lat'inuë slept already beneath a delicately made blanket another pillow by her head. The second chamber had two ellith, one called Murvä whose hair was silver gray though her skin a hue of dark chocolate and radiant in the glow of the lamp. The other called Thinallü was white of skin as her father, yet her curled plaits bespoke her of her mother's people. And finally Koirün, his earthen skin and straight plaits of glistening black hair, slept in the final chamber. He groggily had remained awake until his father had come home,

"Father, I have left a small urn of water beside the hearth if our guest would wish for some."

"Thank you Koirün, go to sleep and all shall be well."

Daeron knelt to the floor and kissed the young ellon upon the forehead. Then, standing, Daeron gestured to the space beside his son,

"I am sorry, this is all I can offer you. Koirün has agreed to share his bed with you until another home can be made or an empty chamber where you might rest can be found."

Celebrin looked about him and felt for the first as though he was home, the house he and his parents shared in Aelin-Uial while his father led the Guards of the Marsh was so, built beneath the roots of the trees that grew there in abundance. Celebrin thanked his host and lay down beside the young ellon, hearing the soft heavy breaths as they punctured the silence of the dwelling, while above the sun blazed forth above him warming the earth around him like a womb.


	18. The King's Journey Home

The setting sun turned the alabaster streets a rusty crimson and the reddish-orange brick buildings glistened as gold in the hues of the twilight; a purple haze arose in the east and the bright points of white starlight began to emerge. This was a time of traveling, for the hot desert sun was gone and the full moon provided enough light upon the ivory dunes that it glistened as bright as day but the travelers were spared the heat. A garrison of 25 stout Hamadjon warriors upon their black steeds waited at the main gate, their faces stern and the eyes ever watchful; they had been asked to join the King of Gondor to the borders of their lands and offer him safe passage upon the Harad Road. Their banners blew listlessly in the wind and their general, Penyelopa fingered the pummel of her labrys, her double-edged axe; for her this journey might be her last - she, unlike her sisters would pass the borders into Gondor and she knew in her heart she would never see Khavul again. Her bright blue eyes peered down the Avenue of Inanna, the Avenue of the Queen where the Citadel of the Stars blazoned a bright gold amid a growing lapis lazuli sky. There her gaze tried to find one man, her beloved, Cedladl. Their wedding had taken place weeks before after the King of Gondor had reclaimed his son before his kinsmen. On the night of the full moon she took him into her house and he became her husband, they knew the mysteries of love that night. Now one cycle of the moon had past and it was time for the men of Gondor to take their leave. She knew her sisters, the Hamadjon had enjoyed the company of the men of Gondor, the only men they felt were their equals. Yet the men of Gondor would not leave their country nor would the hamadjon consent to being made a soldier's wife while they still had strength and vigor in their muscles. Penyelopa fingered the small silver ring that clasped around her finger, a sign of her marriage; the silver came from the red mountains and was sacred to the Ute-Ashtegu, but was forged by the smiths of her own people, a gift from Cedlal that they would be of two peoples and share in that destiny.

* * *

Cedlal stood upon the stone steps before the Citadel's doors looking out at the city he most loved in all the world; this was his home and unlike many he was not frightened or awed by its grandeur and size. He wore not the black tattered clothes of the scout and ranger he had become; instead he wore the fine garments of his Ute-Ashtegu heritage. A linen tunic with buckskin leggings and beaded fringe upon the side; around his neck he wore the turquoise jewelry passed onto him from his grandfather, whom he barely remembered but still dearly loved. In his arms he held a linen cloak made to resemble the desert sand, but richly embroidered with the insignia of his people. Feathers and flowers were woven into his sable hair and they softly swung from left to right as the breeze caught them; about his waist he wore a red loincloth over his leggings, ornately embroidered it signified his acceptance to the world of men from the life of boys. Originally his mother's brother should have indoctrinated him into the Men's group but his mother, Anatse, had no brothers- so his older male cousins, sons of Dhraloku, of the Raven clan sponsored him in the puberty ceremonies…an age ago in the net of the Red Mountains. His long silver blade rested deftly upon his hip, a crescent shaped saber given to him by a Harad prince as a reward; the sheath garnet and richly decorated with roses and thorned vines.

"Taking in the last of Khavul before you go?"

The soft yet solid voice came from behind him and as he turned the sight made him smile; his mother, dressed in a soft white silken gown stood at the opening of the Citadel. The black plaits of her hair curled softly down her shoulders and back and here and there one could see streaks of pure silver shimmering in the dusk. Her gray eyes peered at him in a mixture of sorrow and joy as his smile made him, in her eyes, look as though he were simply a boy of 12 rather than a man of 25 that he had become.

"You do not think I would leave without saying goodbye to you Mother?"

He walked to the woman, who was almost as tall as any man and embraced her warmly taking in her flowery smell and she breathing in for one last time the scent of her only child. Tears flowed down her eyes and she made a soft movement to wipe them away; he mercifully did not call attention to them.

"Why do you not come with us? You said yourself you wished to see the cities of Gondor and perhaps walk the steps that grandfather once walked…Come with us, father will not mind."

"So now he is your father eh?"

She said in a tone that was playful yet biting, her son looked at her with compassion and said,

"When we get settled we shall send for you. Then will you come?"

Anatse smiled weakly at this and nodded; it would only be a few brief moments while mother and son were alone together. The king of Gondor was speaking with Queen Ashthera and the rest of the Council within, discussing plans for the council to visit Gondor for the resigning of a treaty. Anatse allowed herself to be held by her son in silence for a few brief moments and then she looked up at the tall young man before her and said while she fixed the collar of his gold embroidered cloak,

"Penye is pregnant…"

Her son looked at her with astonishment, his mouth agape,

"How do you…Why did she tell you and not me?"

Anatse smiled saying,

"I doubt she knows; for all their skill in battle Hamadjon women know little of midwifery, leaving it to the women of other peoples to help them with childbirth. But for an athletic Hamadjon General she has put on some weight and she glistens well enough."

Her son looked to the Western gate where his wife now was marshalling her troops into formation,

"Perhaps we should put off the trip…until the babe is born."

"There is no need; you shall be in the lands of Gondor ere she begins to feel a quickening; and in Osgiliath when she begins to show. I have asked N'ade of the Ayab-Mamuk to accompany you, I know not how Gondorian midwifes perform their craft, but N'ade is capable and Penye will be comfortable with her. Just remember, if it is a girl…"

"I know…I am Penye's husband after all."

Cedladl smiled and kissed his mother upon the forehead; just then the Citadel doors opened and the King walked out into the cooling dusk, his smile from ear to ear. Beside him walked Queen Asthera, in a silken gown of gold and ruby, her face veiled with gold tulle. She bowed to the King and said,

"At midsummer's eve look for my messengers, I bid thee a farewell and all the blessings of the free folk go with you."

"And my your reign never cease my Queen."

The King's eyes fell on Anatse and he said in a low voice to her,

"I shall care for our son, Anatse, worry not for him."

"Cedladl has ever made his own choices, he will not need you to watch over him…Merely love him as a father ought, Cirya."

With that she kissed him upon his cheek and he embraced her, taking her scent into him. Whispering in her ear his voice seemed on the verge of tears,

"Would that I were to take you with me. Then the sons of Gondor would know true wisdom and beauty."

"Wisdom I have, Cirya, beauty I no longer grasp. Your love blinds you to my wrinkles."

She playfully pushed him away as when they were young. He turned to speak to his most trusted friend Beleg when Anatse felt a strong presence behind her. She turned around and was greeted by the presence of a tall man with silver hair, his face was no older than a man of 40 yet his eyes seemed far more ancient. He scanned her with some sense of recognition upon his face and though his lips were tight and betrayed little emotion she could discern the hint of a smile in them.

"I did not mean to startle you madam."

Anatse bowed slightly with her head in the custom of the east, the man before her spoke the common tongue of Gondor with a slightly foreign accent, it sounded familiar to her yet she could not place it. She could not remove her eyes from his face, nor he from the starry quality of her raven black hair that was streaked with brilliant silver wisps of hair. She then spoke in a clear voice the tongue of the west,

"I did not know the men of Gondor to be so wealthy in their garments, surely you are a prince among them?"

She looked at his raiment and with a weaver's eye found threads of gold and silver woven into a shirt and tunic of silk delicately dyed by expert hands. The regal swan embroidered into the man's collar captured her eye and noted its skill and refinement. The man merely smiled and spoke,

"Nay, I am but a friend. My people live in the south of Gondor, along her coasts yet we do not swear fealty to the King, only long friendship un-sundered for many years. I have come to ensure the king is well sent. When we arrive at Umbar my own people will sail us up the mighty Anduin into Osgiliath."

Anatse thought nothing of their conversation, she knew men of the West enjoyed this "small talk" and had become quite adept herself at it in the many times she had to entertain merchants and tradesmen from Gondor. Yet she noticed his eyes kept falling upon her son in a strange way, looking at every detail of his face and visage.

"Your son is a handsome man my lady…yet I fear he does not look like his father."

Anatse nodded,

"Yes, the eyes are his fathers, the hair mine. The face however belongs to his grandfather, my father who was called Cedlal in the tongue of my people"

Celeborn's eyes then widened in surprise and his mouth almost opened agape,

"You say your father was called Cedlal?"

She nodded, ignoring his surprise. She knew her father's legend had been spread among the Ute-Ashtegu and they had eagerly told it to any Gondorian who they gave hospitality to on the road. No doubt this man of the sea had heard it from a soldier in Gondor.

"The people erected a monument to him there in the plaza below. He was greatly loved and honored for his feats during the war; they say he was the only person who did not fear the shadow that once ruled this land. This citadel stands as a testament to him…My people knew little of architecture and building yet he laid down the plans for this city like a finely woven garment."

"Indeed I saw his grave on my arrival and wondered at its beauty…Surely a fine man was buried there."

Anatse turned to the tall silver-haired man beside her,

"I am sorry but you are mistaken. That monument, though well intentioned is twice-fold a lie. My father does not rest beneath the marble obelisk…nor was he a man."

"I beg your pardon?"

Celeborn's heart beat quicker now,

"He was called in the words of my people a Kadjin, the Gondorians say it harshly as 'katchin'. He was not man as you and I, he was 'like a man'. He was a child of the stars, of the first children of the earth, the Kadjinai."

"And what are the kadjinai?"

"According to my mother they lived in the red mountains beyond the lands of the Ute-ashtegu; creatures that appear as men but are graced with long years of youth, far longer than the span of mortals. Yet he told me, when I heard the stories, that he did not come from the red mountains, but far to the west, a land beside the sea."

"And you believed him?"

Anatse shrugged,

"I was a child then. He was my father, I knew him not as a spirit of the earth but as any daughter would know her father, as a man. Yet as the years passed and my mother aged, he did not, save only in his eyes. Perhaps he was on the children of Numenor, for Cirya…my lord the King Hyarmendacil was so when I first met him."

"And you have some of this blood in you?"

She smiled coyly and looked up into his deep gray eyes,

"I look far too young to have a child in his 25th year, the old matrons say of me. I know not, perhaps I have inherited the long youthfulness of my father and his kin, Kadjina or not, and Cedladl perhaps has too, yet he holds the blood of Numenor in him as well, so I cannot take all the credit."

Celeborn laughed a little at this. Anatse turned to the him and said,

"Forgive me for speaking so long…And I have not asked you your name my lord."

Celeborn blushed then and shook his head,

"There is no need to apologize, I am honored by your forthrightness in telling me so much of you."

"It is a story already known throughout the East, few in Gondor know it in full. But come tell me your name so that I may know to whom I speak."

"I am called Celeborn...of Edhellond."

Anatse's smile seemed to drop and her eyes widened. Celeborn looked worriedly at the shocked expression on her face,

"That name is known to you is it not my lady?"

Celeborn asked in a faint whisper, the gray eyed woman merely nodded, acknowledging for the first time the point of his ears that peaked out through the tight braids of silver hair. Celeborn leaned in to her ear,

"You said your father was not buried under that monument. Where is he my lady?"

Anatse seemed to struggle with the words. She knew now that the lord her father had told her stories of now stood before her, she had never thought the stories true, relegating them to fanciful tales told by men to their children beside the campfire. Celeborn was a name her father spoke in a reverent tone and so she learned to regard it with honor as well, as the name of a hero, of myth. Celeborn's firm touch upon her shoulder reawakened her from her reverie and reminded her that no mere illusion stood before her, but a being of flesh and blood. She looked up at him and shuddered,

"I know not…He left 20 years ago, to take refuge in the red mountains. There he remains and I have heard no news of his death, nor felt it in my soul."

Celeborn's heart began to pace, he would have asked her more questions but at that time Ciryaher called all to prepare for departure. The woman Anatse gazed at him with wonder and worry and for once began to question her surety that the immortal Kadjinai were figments of imagination or of an age long past. Cedladl embraced his mother one last time and gave her a kiss. Then he turned from her and followed his father down the Avenue of Inanna to where the Hamadjon escort waited upon their black steeds.

* * *

The journey took far longer than the travelers had expected, the king was still recovering from his wounds and it came to be known that Penyelopa, the wife of Cedladl was with child. She felt her quickening at the edge of the Hamadjon lands, upon the road to the havens Umbar. This caused the caravan to stop for the king of Gondor did not wish to cause injury to his grandchild; despite the protestations of Penyelopa, a wagon was cleared and she was made to ride in it upon pillows of silk, or the king would not order his men to move forward through these contested lands. Within two months they came to the lands of Umbar and tere the escort of Hamadjon warriors left them. The caravan of the king was then received by the lord of that land, Hadreth whose smile beamed from ear to ear. Yet grave was the king's humor when they came to the lord's hall, also there was lord Calamadril of Anfalas for he had been invited there by express invitation of the king. The hall of Hadreth the lord of Umbar was simple when compared to the King's palace in Osgiliath, yet here in the havens of Umbar it arose like a temple. Its many palisades and balconies spanned over the city made of sandstone; the market before it was filled with many treasures of the orient which would be shipped up the coast to the Bay of Belfalas and further up the Anduin eventually sold to the denizens of Osgiliath. Hadreth, a stout man of thinning hair greated the wounded king with great honor and genuflected humbly before him, speaking in a voice as tinged with false joy as it was with sycophantic pandering,

"My lord, my heart shudders to see you in health before us! When your son returned speaking of an ambush I feared we had lost you forever. How glad I am to see that you have returned to safer, more civilized lands!"

Penyelopa scoffed as she leapt from her agonizing wagon seat, her legs and bones yearning to stretch and ride freely upon her horse who had now been turned into a beast of burden. Cedladl stood beside her and whispered,

"I have no love for this man. When your father and I came through Umbar in my 17th year he treated us with no hospitality."

"You should have told him you were the king's son then perhaps he would have treated you better."

"It was not for me to claim that title…Besides I like it better that he did not know, it showed his true dislike of the people of the East, our brothers."

Penyelopa came close to her husband as the Harad and Ayab-Mamuk traders came forth and paid the king of Gondor homage. Their eyes met the Ute-Ashtegu man and his Hamadjon wife and they bowed their heads as a sign of respect and honor, not knowing that one was the prince of Gondor and once war-chief of the Ute Ashtegu and the other was general of the Minoea and the youngest sister of the high chieftain of the Hamadjon. The king though was undistracted by the emissaries' welcome, his eyes remained fixed on Hadreth and then moved behind him to the Lord of Anfalas, Calamadril.

"I thank thee for they welcome Hadreth, old friend and behold Calamadril of Anfalas has come as well, to bid me welcome! Come forth my friends and fellow lords and greet my guests!"

He motioned for Cedladl and Penyelopa to approach; they moved to stand beside the king as he spoke out in a loud voice so that all could hear,

"My friends! Citizens of Gondor's southern realm and the ship riders of Umbar come forth and greet thy King!"

The market place came to a silent stop and all eyes watched the scene before them, the king, when he had their attention said,

"Behold my honored guests, they shall be treated as princes of the realm while they dwell in these lands! I give you Penyelopa of the Hamadjon and Cedladl Uialasse of the Ute-Ashtegu, my son and prince of the realm of Gondor!"

The emissaries and merchants from Harad and the lands of the Ayab-mamuk to the south bowed at the waist and some cheered. Yet the residents who descended from Numenor and gondor were taken by shock. Rumor had always circulated that the king had once been married to a woman of the east but none knew a child came from the union. Sparsely applause began to come forth and the gathered crowd knelt upon one knee with a stern gaze from their King. Hadreth and Calamadril however seemed to grow pale at this new development; and unbeknownst to them Beleg and his guards circled them. Ciryaher turned to the people and smiled,

"My journey to the east opened my eyes, not only to right the wrongs I have committed but to ensure a greater prosperity within my own lands. I hereby declare that the banks and vaults of Umbar be opened and all people be given a piece of the wealth of this land numbering 500 _castarin_ to every family, in celebration of the arrival of my own dear son, the prince Uialasse and his marriage to Penyelopa, princess of the Hamadjon as well as to the eminent birth of my grandchild!"

The crowd then cheered loudly at the King's generosity and many began to chant his name and the names of Uialasse and Penyelopa. Cedladl looked anxiously at his father who had a fell and frightening smile upon his face and a strange eagerness in his eyes. His heart beat quickly and he felt a deep shadow and threat in his own heart. Hadreth chuckled nervously,

"My lord, this is wondrous news, please let me be the first to-"

, but the king cut him off, raising his hand and ordering for silence,

"But before we celebrate I must attend to a matter of grave importance. Beleg bring forth the chest."

The dutiful servant went to the back of one of the wagons and with the help of another pulled a large chest from it. The King began a speech that he had been rehearsing,

"When I left into the wilderness of the East I was attacked by a band of ruffians, cruel men I thought from the east, betrayers to the treaty I had signed in my 35th year of rule with the city of Khavul and the Seven Nations of the Red Mountains…But I was mistaken."

Beleg and his companion placed the chest upon the floor in the middle of the marketplace, between the two lords of Umbar and Anfalas and the king. Opening the chest a horrid stench of dried, putrid blood entered the air and all covered their mouths save the king.

"These cruel men kept me near death, set on randsoming me to my enemies, but by the valor of my daughter-in-law and the skill of my son I was saved and healed, so that I might stand before you today. The bodies of my attackers were brought to Khavul so that I might know from whence they came. Their heraldry is here before you…Hadreth, my dear friend would you be so kind as to pull it out and show the people of the city the face of their enemy who nearly stole from them their most beloved king?"

Hadreth shook with terror as he approached the chest, he seemed ready to vomit then and there but held himself long enough to reach in and pull out soiled rags covered in blood. Dark they were, made of black and red; at this Calamadril spoke,

"Cruel Harad did this no doubt, I have seen many among them wear a garb such as this!"

The harad traders shot him a glare of fierce hatred, for now all eyes fell upon them in anger, the king however ordered silence once more,

"I would have agreed with you Calamadril save for one thing, they spoke Alamb-harad with a strange and altogether unwieldy accent, as though they had no custom of speaking it in their daily life. Hadreth please there is more at the bottom of the chest…"

Hadreth could not bring himself to reach in so instead, with a nod from the king, Beleg reached in and held up a strange sight. In his hands, drenched in enemy blood was a golden medallion in his right and a gauntlet in his left.

"These artifacts are not Harad. The medallion bears the emblem of a ship, a token I gave to my captains 33 years ago after the defeat of the Harad at Umbar. And the gauntlet bears a strange symbol, a Numenorean sword carried by a carrion bird in flight between two pillars. If I am not mistaken, this is the symbol of your personal guard is it not Hadreth?"

The plump lord scoffed incredulously,

"What are you accusing me of my lord? So base a treachery that I would send my personal guard to kidnap you? Absurd!"

The king reached one more time into the chest and pulled out a leather traveler's satchel covered in blood,

"Nay I do not, most likely one of your guard was killed by these pirates of the sand dunes and they took his livery. Yet these we found upon the chief of my kidnappers are filled with dark portents, they are letters signed in red ink. They speak of a most ingenious scheme, a messenger of the Hamadjon had come to see the Lord of Umbar prior to my arrival and told him that she would come with a fully armed escort to usher me safely through the desert, for the roads were perilous and a safer route had been made in anticipation of my arrival. The letters tell of a strange conspiracy, I would go upon the old Harad road, guarded by my personal guard and with my son, the Prince Alcarin. The fiends were to kidnap me, slay my guard and take me and my son far away, perhaps into the hinter lands where darkness dwells and there sell me to my enemies. The King of Gondor would no doubt fetch a hefty price and there is no shortage of evil men who would wish me dead. My head was to then be sent to Gondor and a randsom paid for my son, at the request of the Queen of the East herself!"

Hadreth backed away and Calamadril looked intently upon the golden medallion, but still the king continued,

"The letters go on to say that this medallion was the price paid for their services. Should war ensue between Khavul and Gondor, as no doubt it would once my head arrived in Osgiliath, Khavul would be weakened by war and the council of the Seven Nations brought to ruin. These letters, though entertaining were not written in Alamb-Harad, no, they were written in Adunaic…A strange tongue for men from Harad to write, much less speak with fluency I might add!"

The king stepped forth and looked intently at Hadreth,

"My friend…perhaps you can solve this riddle for me? I am perplexed, how would pirates from Harad or the hinterlands know the mother tongue of Numenor when it is not even taught to the school children in Osgiliath? Adunaic is only taught in the great halls of lore, to old men and mighty captains."

Hadreth shivered and could not look upon the face of the King of Gondor. Cedladl wanted to step forth, fearful of what his father might do, for now his face turned from sarcasm to actual rage, his sun kissed visage reddened with anger. Under Ciryaher's cool gaze Hadreth buckled and broke into tears, he knelt at the king's feet and wept bitterly, grasping at the king's cloak,

"Forgive me my king! It was not I that ordered this thing done, but another. Look not at me, t'was the orders of Calamadril that I followed. And I was too weak to resist his subtle charms!"

Calamadril's pale face then turned into a sneer,

"You lying oaf! How dare you acuse me of playing the traitor. Anyone can see that you were angry at the king for forcing your people to withdraw from their efforts at colonizing the lands of our allies in the south!"

"Be silent you worm!"

Shouted the king and Calamadril found himself held fast by the strong arms of Beleg and the other guard.

"I have not revealed all. The letters indeed were written by Hadreth's hand and foolishly he sealed it with his own personal stamp. Yet he was not a captain on the ships that conquered the havens of Umbar, to whom I gave these golden tokens of my esteem and gratitude. However, you Calamadril were."

A great clamor briefly filled the air and then all became silent as the king approached the tall sinewy lord,

"Indeed I do not doubt your desire for war. Should Gondor go to war with Khavul, Anfalas would be the supplier of warships given its safety from attack. You would have profited greatly from it and no doubt convinced the other lords of Gondor that you alone could serve as viceroy of Khavul should you be successful in conquering the city. What sickens me most is not your treachery but your insatiable greed, you are no man of Numenor and an even lesser man than the wildmen of the north. I charge you Calamadril and Hadreth with conspiracy to commit treason against the King of Gondor and Gondor's people. Your actions would have needlessly cost the lives of countless Gondorians and enmity between fast allies that has kept the peace of these lands for 33 years. I condemn you now in the public forum whatever is fitting for a traitor's death. Leave my sight and pray that you receive mercy in the halls of Mandos."

Beleg and his companion pushed the Lord of Anfalas forward as the king strode toward the Lord of Umbar's home. Cedladl watched in morbid awe as his father sentenced the two men to death, then at this he spoke,

"Father wait!"

Silence filled the air and all eyes fell upon the young man in the midst of it all,

"What is it my son? Do you wish also to pass judgment upon these men?"

Cedladl looked upon the man called Hadreth and the other called Calamadril and anger burned in his heart toward them. But something else nagged at his soul,

"I know not how justice is done in Gondor, yet in the lands to the east all men…no matter their crime, or their station are given a fair trial and chance to explain themselves to the people. We cannot debase ourselves and proclaim death on a whim, these men must be judged yes, but they must be found guilty by the people, not by one man, no matter if he be king or commoner."

"You question my own rule in my lands?"

, said King Ciryaher. His voice was not of malice but in truth of surprise and curiosity. Cedladl sighed and looked at the eager faces around him, his eyes then fell upon his wife and she smiled, her strength passing unto him,

"Never would I question your right to rule as king in your lands father…but these men also committed crimes of conspiracy against the Harad whom they falsely accused and against Khavul and the Queen whom they sought to implicate in their hatred and greed. Should they not answer for their crimes in Khavul, as well as in Osgiliath?"

Ciryaher now looked upon his son in awe, for the youth's eyes did not falter though he could be certain some fear lived in them. To openly question the king in an open forum was dangerous no matter how just or honorable the king should be, for to question his ruling was to question the seat of his power itself. Chuckling to himself the king looked out at the people,

"My son is just is he not? He is wise beyond even my foolishness and brave to question me his king in an open forum. Very well Cedladl, I hear what you say. In my anger I sought vengeance and not justice and you have reminded me of it. Beleg take these men to the stockade where they will await an escort to take them to Khavul to be tried there for their crimes. And you Calamadril cherish your chance to defend your life…and thank my son who won it for you."

Calamadril stood tall and sneered, he lifted his nose proudly to the sky and said,

"I need not the mercy of some half-blood bastard of a desert whore!"

With this he spat at Cedladl and with a strength belying his age he wrested himself free from Beleg's clutches. He dove his hands into his robes and with great speed he unsheathed a dagger forged of dark iron. The Gondorian lord cursed the youth before him and lunged toward him, screaming like fey beast. Yet as quickly as Calamadril had lunged a flash of bright steel swung through the air and his head was severed from his body and fell with a sickening wetness before Hadreth, who was being held by two of the King's guards. Now standing between Cedladl and his attacker was Penyelopa, her great double-sided axe held deftly balanced in her hands and Calamadril's blood streaked across her face. Her eyes were cold and calculating, yet also filled with rage. She lowered her weapon as all looked in awe at her, yet she seemed to stumble slightly and fell backward into her husband's arms.

"Penye…what is the matter?"

Looking at him she smiled and then looked down her torso and saw Calamadril's dagger protruding several inches out of her lower abdomen. The wound was not deep but it was damaging and her blood began to trickle down it, staining her pleated skirt and breeches. With a brief intake of air she pulled the dark iron blade from her body and cried out in pain; Cedladl quickly ripped off his red sash and applied it to her wound, putting pressure upon it. The king meanwhile ran toward them and ordered a healer to be dispatched at once. The marketplace was in chaos and people began crowding around to see the spectacle. Cedladl looked upon his wife's face with pale fear in his eyes,

"Penye…please say something!"

"The child."

Was all she said before fainting in his arms as his tears fell upon her face.


End file.
